Gods and Their Creations
by Zeech
Summary: Instead of the "Down Once More" sequence, the Phantom is arrested, and Christine lives in regret as he is once again caged and humiliated. Written in a series of vignettes.
1. Gods and Their Creations

**Title: Gods and Their Creations**

**Characters: **No pairing is focused on, but the story centers around Erik, Christine, Raoul and Inspector Arnoux.

**Rating: **PG-13

**Phantom Version: **Based off the musical/film

**Le Note: **This will be told in a series of vignettes. Well, I suppose they're not really vignettes, are they? More like very short chapters. I call them vignettes because I don't intend for this to a long story, more something that can't be ignored, so the only way to properly get it flowing is through vignettes. Not so much a direct and deliberate sequence of events, but subtle events and character insights. Ouch. Anyway, lots of thanks to, again, Kit, for slapping the desk and squeeing with me, as well as contributing to themes and ideas for my ramblings. S'what I get for having a hetero life-mate :D The Phantom is arrested after 'Point of No Return'.

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She was pale, and shaking. The healthy cream of her white skin had drained to the color of a dull paste, and as she sat idly with her legs hanging off the side of the stage she appeared almost an ashen gray. Christine's eyes were dark and almost black in contrast, and when Inspector Luc Arnoux approached her she regarded him with no expression. Fear, or something even more than being frightened lingered there, but nothing else. The Opera House was emptied now; there was nothing more to see.

"Your performance was nothing short of mesmerizing," he began, earning a flicker of a blink, her feather black lashes brushing her cheek and rising to reveal glistening tears. "Mamselle Daae," he said softly, and knelt gently before her. "We have no further questions for you, you may go now." Christine did not move. Shallow, shuddering breaths moved the smooth contours of her shoulders to rise and fall, and Christine's lips twitched, like she might cry. Inspector Arnoux titled his head, and reached out to touch her chin with the tip of his gloved finger, bringing her face to line with his. A veil of cloudy tears gathered at the dark brown of her eyes, and beaded to her lashes. "Mamselle Daae?" he whispered. "Will you be alright?"

Would she be alright? Christine felt her heart pound at the walls of her chest, each thump bringing on a new shudder left over from the hours of tears. Her heart felt as if it might be slowing, tiring with every breath that racked her body. She did not know if she would be alright. In the whole of her life she had never quite felt so wretched. Betrayal was a bitter weight, and it turned her bones to jelly and moved to drag her body limply to the lowest level of the floor. How she kept upright and resolved, not even she knew.

It had been quick, a flash of decision with no time for thought or panic, as the entire _trap_ was meant to be. How she had ever managed to even agree was beyond her. From the first moment he had stepped into character, onto the stage in his own opera in front of the audience he'd hid from his entire life, Christine had feared. Perhaps not the Phantom, perhaps not becoming his prey, but she had feared. And when he began to sing her fear had melted into insensibility, and wanton desire. His movement. His song, his presence, everything that made what he was wrong only made her want to be with him, be part of him.

The Phantom's opera had dug it's hooks inside her, beneath the skin, beneath all else that held her back from him, and once his music had penetrated her there had been no thoughts of turning back. Through the black mask she saw his eyes take her in anger, in raw desire, but above all these, she saw him finish with love. The Phantom – Erik – had given a final plea to be hers, to be wanted, and to be loved by her. Even as she had stripped his mask and revealed him as horrible to the whole of the world, Erik had kept his eyes on her face. With the pitiful love had been acceptance, a slow, quiet acceptance of the horrified cries of the audience, the looks on their faces. An acceptance of what was to come. Vaguely she remembered touching him, tenderly, before the sound returned in a roar from an unsatisfied crowd, and a dozen officers and men trampled up to their level, and tore down the Phantom's opera.

Someone had taken rough hold of her, bruising her arms but telling her it was for her own protection. It was all she remembered, save for bits of the arrest that repeated over and over in a flashing sequence inside her mind. Laughing, hateful faces. Erik, arms twisted behind his back to tear the muscles, pressed against the wooden beams as he was bound. A fist in his dark hair, forcing his head down as he was pushed violently through the crowds. Christine shouted in protest, words she couldn't even hope to remember. It was all wrong, terribly wrong. And it never had to be that way. If God had truly made the world in his image, if he put any of his will into the course of the Earth, Erik might have been anyone else. Loved. At peace. He might have been anyone else.

"Mamselle," Arnoux said again, softly, and Christine seemed to fade back into the world around her. A tear allowed itself to drop, and she quickly reached up to catch the others. Trails stained her cheeks. "Mamselle, will you be alright?"

"No, Monsieur," Christine whispered dryly, slipping her forefinger between her teeth, and averting her distant gaze to a point on the floor. "I will die, I think, before the break in my heart heals." The inspector didn't know how to reply, nor could he understand why she cried for the man they called the Phantom. He'd not yet been to the holding cell to see his men's arrest, and from what Arnoux had heard, the man had haunted the girl, violently for many months. And yet, she thought she might die of grief. He gently touched her shoulder, and came wearily to his feet, turning from her. No more questions, then. It was off to the cell block, to try and cool the swarming madness sweeping through Paris and it's people, for him now.

At the very end of the isle he stopped and watched the girl. Her hands had found her face, and the ballet instructor had black clad arms circling her. She wore no expression, but comfort was plain.

"I took his mask and left him bare," Christine Daae whimpered, her head on the woman's breast. "Before the eyes of the world. There was no reason. I didn't have to," she turned her face away from the blaring lights of the chandelier. "Oh God. Forgive me everything."

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	2. Filth and Disease

Author's Note: Thanks for the support, I'm glad this is getting positive attention. I'll try to keep these updates fast, short and sweet. Thanks again!

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**II : Filth and Disease**

Paris was in an uproar. The people had nothing to gossip about, none as of late to push into grounds lower than their own state, and that was why they had chosen the arrest of the Opera Ghost to pass around the city like currency, trading secrets and rumors, most of them untrue, for moments of popularity and brief flares of attention. That was the public for you, a mass of ignorant, and even worse, bored idle minds. Even Arnoux's own wife tittered on endlessly at dinner about the Opera Ghost, and absolutely everything her lady friends had to say on the subject. Interestingly enough, the conversation somehow managed to spiral to the direction of the Vicomte de Chagney and his new future bride. In a way it was refreshing, and turn from the usual affairs of his day.

On the evening of the third night after the Phantom's arrest, Arnoux had been notified of a gathering at the jailhouse, and as he trudged the dirty streets he prepared himself to make another speech to keep the crowd at bay, and once again convince them that it was not the devil's son held up in that cell, but a man, like any other, who would be treated with the justice of the land, like any other. It half-way worked last time, and the time before that. In three days, he'd felt more like a diplomat than an inspector, receiving only half the respect.

Before the house there were, indeed, people in a very large number, crowded by the door, but they all seemed to be looking in wonder, each trying to see over the other's head as if trying to get a peek at something. Arnoux guessed what that something was, and quickened his pace, pushing past various men and women to the double doors. Inside was not much different, more people standing around and waiting. He turned to the man at the main desk, and began removing his gloves, stepping up to the lanterns.

"What is going on here?" he inquired, impatiently when the man ignored him. "Who are all these people?" The man froze, and stopped writing. He looked over to the cell block, which extended down a hallway that curved around the main lobby. Voices were quiet and faint, hushed, as if they had been told to keep silent. Arnoux looked back to the clerk, who just shrugged, wide-eyed, and took his coat to leave. With growing anger and suspicion, Arnoux quickly pushed through the others, and made his way down the cellblock. At the very end, where Erik was being held, he saw a man, a woman, and three children clutching the bars of the cell and staring in, talking quietly amongst themselves. The boy, probably the eldest of the three, stuck his hand through the bars.

"Aren't you going to look at us?" He demanded, brashly. "He won't look at us, Papa," the boy looked up at his father, who shared the glance and passed the officer another hand of coins. He nodded, and stepped into the cell. Arnoux felt as if his feet were frozen to the ground as he watched, jaw gaping in ambivalence. He had a half-view of what was happening – the officer reached over and spoke something to Erik, and was ignored. With a sneer he fisted Erik's dark hair, and immediately what looked like what could have been a finely boned, handsome face from the side turned into a twisted mass of disfigured flesh, and a section of deformed scalp with no hair. The mother shrieked, and covered the eyes of the youngest, while the boys laughed. The officer shoved Erik's head back into his control, and kept a hand on his pistol, as if reminding the Phantom he would not repeat his first escape.

"Time is over," one of the officers said, palm spread heavenward with a few coins in it's center as he idly counted the sum. "Next," Arnoux watched as two old women stepped up to the bars, each fishing out coins from ragged purses. A sickness gestated in his belly, and anger blossomed with it. He shoved past the crowd again, and faces turned toward him, half in shame, half in annoyance.

"What are you doing?!" he snarled, sweeping up to the scene and pushing the two women back away from the bars, even as they struggled against him to get even one glimpse at the Opera Ghost, both protesting violently and clutching at his sleeves. A few officers ran to control the crowd, and he turned to the young man who'd been collecting the admission, anger indescribable and flaming in his eyes as he searched for words. "What gives you the right?!"

"Me and the lads," he started stupidly, stammering. "We wanted a few extra –" he was drowned out by the people's shouting – apparently the disappointment had traveled quickly down the line, and now everyone was swarming to the bars, despite Arnoux and the officer's best efforts to keep them back. They were swept against the other empty cells, metal clanging and ringing in their slots angrily, as the crowd formed around Erik's cell. The hideous side of his face was hidden, and again he looked like any man. Like he should have appeared. One of the blue eyes glanced side-long at the crowd, and it earned a loud reaction.

"Turn around," they shouted, rattling the bars. "Turn around and show your true self!" Erik ignored them, and Arnoux struggled to get back in the front of the crowd. Things were being thrown through the tiny spaces in the bars, and hands and fingers reaching in as if it would bring him closer. One of the people jiggled the latch, and discovered that the door had not been locked by the officer charging admission. He forced it open, and faced the crowd with a triumphant, ugly smile. "It's open!"

"No!" Arnoux shouted, and his voice was lost among the horrified, gleeful cries. "People, remember your places, remember your souls!" he tried, but none would listen. Two large men entered the cell and one of them threw Erik into the wall of the cell, a bone cracking impact that clenched Arnoux's stomach. Another fistful of his good hair brought him to his knees, and held his chin sharply upward with the side of his face yet again exposed, along with the vulnerable underside of his throat. Blood trickled from one nostril, and his bottom lip swelled and already began to bruise. Laughter and horror overtook the block, and Arnoux struggled to get out of the crowd. As he made his way back from the bars, the people didn't seem to care where he went, as long as he was retreating.

But Arnoux was not retreating. Thirty years of dealing with the hideous sides of humanity had hardened him, and bred in him a hatred for injustice. He pulled a pistol from the holster at his side, and raised it to the ceiling, firing once. Screams, and then silence. The men in the cell released Erik, and stood back with their hands in the air. The others quieted, and stared at Arnoux as if they'd not seen him there before. A heavy silence took the block.

"Listen carefully," he said, his voice low and dangerous in his hoarse throat. "For I will not give the option again," he holstered the pistol, and all eyes warily followed it before going back to his face. "Be gone. Be gone now, with your lives, and your names, and what happened here today, _this injustice_," he spat the words like poisoned wine, and they came off a hiss on his tongue. "Will be forgotten by the law," Everyone glanced around, and the two men quietly moved out of the cell. A slow, quiet retreat began. "But it will not be forgotten by me," Arnoux told them, in a low and vicious tone. Some ignored him, others stared wildly at him. "Or by the God you claim to fear. Pray for your souls, for today you were each a child of the devil. Go." As the people filed out, one by one, he checked his pistol, and shot a scathing glare to the officers charging admission. "Clean your wreckage up," he snapped. "And I'll decide whether to suspend or discharge you."

The officers scurried down the block, and Arnoux turned to face Erik's cell. Aside from the blood running down the good side of his face, and his mussed hair, he looked untouched and nonplused by the ordeal. He sat on his bed with quiet dignity, the hideous side of his face safe outside the range of vision. Caged, and alone, Erik seemed almost incapable of thought or speech, but Arnoux knew it was not true. He approached the bars, and the single eye rolled up to glance at him. Arnoux wordlessly reached into his breast pocket and removed a handkerchief. He glanced down at it, briefly, and then back at Erik. He slipped his hand and wrist between the bars, and offered it to the Phantom.

He seemed suspicious of it, but Erik inhaled deeply, and without betraying too much of his deformity moved to take it. He clasped it and pulled it to his person, staring forward and keeping it to his chest a moment before wiping at the blood on his face. He did so gently, and carefully, the movement of his fingers precise and delicate. When the wounds were reduced to minor bruises Arnoux cleared his throat, and still received no reaction.

"You wrote it, didn't you," he asked, and again Erik's eye flicked towards him. "The opera. You wrote it, composed it," Erik stared at him, and Arnoux nodded, slowly. "It was brilliant, if truth be told." With no reply, Arnoux took it as a signal to leave his prisoner in solitude again. He did not seem to mind it. He reached into his coat, and unwrapped a parcel of brown paper. The sound caught the Phantom's attention, and Arnoux held the contents out to him from between the bars. "Yours," he said. "Delivered here anonymously yesterday. I thought you might want it." Erik stared at what stuck out of the brown paper, and when he finally made it out he snatched it up quickly, and tossed the paper aside, fitting it over the unseen side of his face. Arnoux slid his hands into his pockets, and turned to leave.

Erik said, in a voice gravely from the shouting and the struggle, and then men's hands upon his throat, "Thank you." It was so quiet Arnoux himself had barely heard it.


	3. Where Our Secrets Go

**Author's Note: **In this chapter, I'm going to take a moment to answer a few questions that I got in reviews. For instance, the character of Arnoux. Yes, he's entirely original, because this is a slight – okay, _very_ AU, and we're entering a potential side to the story that hasn't been addressed by the 'fandom', if you will. Arnoux's character is 'admirable', because he's sickened by how the public sees Erik and treats him, he's sickened by old stupid superstitions and the general ignorance. Yeah, that was pretty uncommon for back then, but I put Arnoux in there on the grounds that there _were_ the select few, such as Madame Giry, who thought differently than the masses. More than that, yes, Arnoux is uncommon for his time, and how he's come to a position where he can do something about it probably means in his past he has had to gamble his integrity to get where he is. Oh, deep, right?

Going further, you like Arnoux? Of course you do, he is the readers window into this universe, so if you find yourself agreeing with his thoughts, it's because he's your doorway. Now! That said, onto _this_ installment's author's note.

I tried not to go overboard with this one, but understand that Erik will in all likelihood be put to death, and, well, that is all because of Christine. Christine is a very sensitive soul, and she does love the Phantom. One way or the other, this is how it came out, I hope it's to all your likings. I'm done blabbing. Thanks, by the way, for the support!

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**III : Where Our Secrets Go**

It seemed to Raoul that Christine never slept. In the gloom of dying winter she could be found by a window, staring blankly into the distance, and when she was not shrouded in silence, she prayed in the chapel. What she asked of God, he did not know, but feared he could surmise.

The truth was that pain worked it's way as ever through Christine. Not a physical pain, but the unbearable nausea of guilt, and all the consequences to follow. He said nothing, and neither did she, as her forehead pressed against the bars, and her eyes rested distantly on him.

If Raoul knew she had come here, he would not be in the least bit pleased with her, but she had no choice. Christine had to see Erik. He somehow appeared smaller in the lantern light than he ever had before, but his mask had been returned to him, and as such produced a cold, angry, shadowed expression on the right side of his masked face.

Christine had first noticed his healing lip, and the light purple bruise around his nose and jaw line. She had asked him what happened, and Erik said not a single word. Christine sank to her knees beside the bars, and crumbled from there into a fragile little heap of black and white, her spine crushed uncomfortably against the door of the cell. She wearily rest her temple on the iron.

"I know you'll not speak to me," she whispered, shallow and barely audible. Erik regarded her in stone-eyed silence, unreadable, but he was listening. With his mask brought back his sense of power, and his pride was strong, even behind the unfeeling bars of another cage. He never faced them as a child, never wanted to touch them. People constantly surrounded him, laughing, crying, perhaps even praying – but none had moved to help him. In fear and grief, the boy would crawl to the center of the cage and huddle to escape the clutching, bruising fingers that invaded the contraption. He was a man now, and safe behind a mask, he found the resolve to face the bars like the man he'd wanted to be. Christine stirred again, but kept her eyes in her lap. "And I can't blame you for it. I would not speak to me. I have never obeyed my heart, and I can't blame you for hating me," she moaned, and tears pushed through her resolve and broke her voice, thick with emotion. "I hate me as well,"

She brought her gloved hands to her face, and inhaled deeply to regain composure. Warm tears came in battalions, fighting one another to keep a hold on her so they might never empty. Christine gave up, and she turned to Erik, eyes glistening with tears and dark with grief. Oh, how she wanted to touch him. He only turned his head to discard her from view, but that was something. He felt _something_, didn't he? Anything?

Christine closed her eyes, hard enough to turn the black behind her lids into faint ripples of distant pain. _You stupid little girl,_ she thought viciously. Of course he felt. Betrayed, alone, cast-aside, and hated. His only love had handed him over to the merciless laws of men, to the world who had hated him before they had cause or reason to hate him. The solitude, the darkness of such a loneliness was something she could only imagine. Being not only alone, but unwanted, and not even by the tolerable hatred of a world, but by the one he had trusted, and loved.

Grief pressed at her, and Erik refused to look on the sight. Christine sobbed, heavy but quiet, and pulled closer to the bars, knuckles white with the effort of holding on so tightly. "You think I did not love you," she choked, desperately, her own voice reaching a low, unrecognizable note as it drowned in tears. Her throat ached. "I did, I did love you. Perhaps not in the way you wanted me to, but I gave you my mind," she swiped angrily at the trails running constant down her face, wishing furiously to just tear away such weakness. "I gave you my mind, and my heart with it. You were my teacher, of course I loved you," Christine felt a flash of anger kindle again when he turned his head to her, only a flicker of interest crossing his features. "You gave me your music," she said softly. "You had a piece of my heart, as well."

This time emotion, clear and undeniable, streaked briefly across his face, and as he turned away the edge of moisture in his pale eyes caught the lamp light. Christine had no strength to pursue it. She felt sickened, and leaned once again upon the bars, letting her body relax limply against them.

"But you terrorized me," she murmured, and the path of her gaze fell on nothing. The dark coils of her hair provided a shield, from the wrath of his suffering. "You played your vengeance so very well. I never slept, without fearing you. Thinking of you," Christine closed her eyes. "Missing what we had. Your voice, singing me to dreams, not to nightmares," Her lips moved slowly, and the sound that came was so faint Erik could barely hear it. She might have wasted away before him, and he would not have known the difference. "You put me in a cage of my own," she breathed. "Angel."

Christine tucked her chin, and flattened her palms on the cold, dirty planks of the wooden floor, crying quietly behind her screen of dark hair. Her sobs were soft, and dignified. There was a part of Erik that wanted to sneer at her. She wanted pity, but Christine had never seen him cry. She'd never seen him on those nights, when darkness, and loneliness, and that weight of the world's solitude called to him, and bore him into the deepest despair. Those nights when it felt as if he might cry his soul out of the body God had cursed him with, and onto the meaningless stacks of paper: his life's work, never to be seen for it's glory. Christine had not been there to offer her pity, or her love.

There was the other part of him, but that voice had been silenced some time ago, and in his own misery he could be no comfort for her.

"How are you being treated?" Christine inquired, her voice flattened by the flow of tears. Erik studied her face blankly as she gazed over him – the bruises appeared to eat away at his pale skin, leaving only patches of disturbed, internally bleeding flesh. His face answered her question. "Erik, why did you not go when you had the chance?" she breathed. "Why did you not go back?"

Erik blinked, closing his eyes for a long time before inhaling, and looking on her again. "Go back," he finally repeated. "To my hole in the ground?"

"You might have been safe there," she said, uncertain.

The moments dragged on like lifetimes. She hesitantly moved her thin fingers up the smooth iron of the bars, and extended her gloved hand into the heavy, tentative open air, as far as it took her to him. Erik enveloped it immediately with one of his, and their contact shattered the icy dam between them. He cradled her palm to his cheek, and Christine slid her hand out of the black leather glove, pressing her bare, cool touch to the smooth skin of his bruised jaw. His temperature rose from cold, to warm, to hot against her flesh. The feel of that change, to feel his blood running it's course through his veins again forced emotion out of her.

The door cracked open, and the sound of a key being forced into an old latch scraped at the silent air. Footsteps followed.

"Mamselle, I am sorry, you must go now," the officer said, and stepped to the side. Light plunged into the narrow hallway as Raoul's shadow cast long onto the opposite wall. Before the cell he knelt beside her, and cupped her shaking shoulders in his warm hands, stroking her hair back from her white face, even as she refused to look at him.

"Christine, stop this," he whispered, gently. "Stop suffering, darling," Raoul kissed her temple, lightly, and his eyes turned, hard, to Erik. "What did you say to her?" he snapped. "What did you say to break her like this?"

Erik released Christine's hand, and with both eyes wary of Raoul's presence, clear, and blue, and capable of all the cruelty they had witnessed in his years, he withdrew to his bed and faced the wall again; closed to the world. Raoul followed his recoil, just as coldly.

"Answer me," he demanded, and received a disinterested half-glance. "Answer me, damn you, why do you take pleasure in torturing her?" Christine shot to her feet beside him in a single movement, and clutched at his sleeves.

"No," she hushed. "Raoul, leave him, it's nothing. Nothing." Christine allowed her lover to pull her into a tight embrace, and he buried his nose in her hair. She feebly returned it. Raoul again pressed his dry lips to her forehead, and gently took her face in his hands.

"Go wait with the officers," he told her. "I want a word with him, and I will only be a minute."

"Raoul, don't," she started, but he leaned forward and whispered something Erik did not hear. Christine nodded, slowly and resignedly, and gave the Phantom one last glance before heading down the block to the door. Raoul followed her every movement with his eyes, and when the door closed he slowly turned to face the Erik.

"Good evening, Erik," Raoul was civil, and formal. A cruel half smile played indention into Erik's cheek, and he kept his eyes on the wall.

"And to you, Vicomte," he breathed the title with delicious mockery, and Raoul inhaled sharply but maintained patient composure.

"I want to ask you something," Raoul neared the bars. "Something I could, under other circumstances, expect to be noosed for, am I right?"

"Most certainly,"

"Of course," Raoul said without missing a beat. "You love her," Erik snapped his head around to catch the young man a heated glare, but Raoul ignored it. "I see it in you. I know it, because you are here," Raoul caught the change in Erik's expression; the smile returned in willingness to hear the Vicomte out. "You are here, when you and I both know that you don't have to be," Erik's dark brow quirked with amused intrigue. The half smile deepened. "Madame Giry has told me of you," the smile vanished. "Your story. I know how you have suffered."

"You," Erik snapped, "know nothing, boy."

"You know what it is to _suffer_," Raoul said over him, and Erik cast his glare away from the young man. "What I want to know is _why_ you would let her suffer on your account. You know pain like this, if you _love_ her, why do you inflict it on her? Why?"

Erik did not speak at first, and after a long time he tilted his head to regard Raoul, coolly. "This pain you speak of is mirrored in myself," he replied, simply. "When she and I are together, then it will stop."

Raoul exhaled hard through his nose, and Erik went back to himself. No more words were exchanged, but it was long before he found the courage to leave the cell block and confront Christine. She waited alone by the double doors, dark and shadowed in the orange glow of the dim lamplight.


	4. Cursed and Won

**Author's Note: **Now this one came to me late last night, as I revised **Where Our Secrets Go**. It raised a few questions to me, just basically about the reality of this. Erik is a killer. He's a killer, but we see sides of him that have so much, just.. _love_, you know? So I was trying to reason the character, basically. Motive, all that. In his heart of hearts I think he knows what he did was wrong, that's why he's captive, trying to appeal more to Christine that he... knew what he did, you know? I hope you do, because I don't.

Anyway, another speedy update is on the way. Thanks, again, to everyone for their reviews.

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**IV : Cursed and Won**

Erik had never considered himself a murderous soul. His first kill had been the moment that defined his freedom.

A plan for escape had formed in his mind months beforehand, but as time dragged on he realized his chances became smaller and smaller as he grew older. As a boy he could slip through the shadows effortlessly, but as a man he would be clumsy and too large to successfully keep himself concealed, and the larger he grew, the harder he was beaten to keep his strength in check.

It happened to dawn on him one night, as he played with his only friend, a ragged little animal, that with this new strength came power the gypsies would only be able to deny him for so long. When he was still young, longer ago than he cared to remember even then, his heart lacked the resilience to take a life, but as he slowly approached adolescence, Erik knew there would be only one way to take his place in the world, and that was through seizing control.

Consequences played themselves over and over as he bided his time, but when he let the still-warm corpse fall to the dirty straw of his cage, no remorse afflicted him. Erik, knowing nothing of what was to come, simply plucked his sewn-rag friend from under the body, and behind the two ripped holes in his mask they had shared a triumphant smile. It was the beginning of something – perhaps of his end. He might have been put to death there, and if so he still would have gladly abandoned the world in satisfaction. The means of his own will had released him, and it was a release like nothing he had ever felt before.

It would be years before he sought that release again. Erik found solace in the bowels of the Opera House, learning, creating, growing in mind and body. On the occasions he would surface under the cover of night, he watched, and expanded his knowledge. Through the beauty of the Opera he saw the world he had been denied, and music rose inside him, and mirrored that release.

Then she came, and brought with her a plague of distraction and disorientation. His furious work, his creations diverted into a dull hobby as he watched her. Art, and music could no longer satiate his hunger. The hunger was not one for power, or control, or the freedom Erik had already established – it was a hunger for something even further out of his reach. A hunger for love. It was always there, but as the years climbed it had become easier to ignore; until she came.

His heart made it's strangest alteration yet: he loved, he wanted to share everything with her, make her happy, let her feel what it was he felt when music poured from his soul. It was wonderful, the need for it. Wonderful, and terrible. Once again, Erik was lost for control. He had to fight for her, and when he stepped up to the challenge again, even years later, it had not been nearly as difficult as he assumed it would. The neck was the most vulnerable connection of the human frame, and even Joseph Buquet, as he struggled for air in the last moments, could not save himself.

Rage powered him. Passion, and anger allowed him to ignore the pleading fear in the man's eyes as he let the body drop to the stage. The rope uncoiled, and pulled taught. It was as simple as that. The stagehand's death was justified. Buquet and Piangi: Men, who had never been lowered to his Hell until the last.

Erik had fought for her, killed for her, and what had come it? His pain still beat like flames in a roaring furnace, and his love was not returned. No reason lay as plain, now, as it had on those nights at the opera. The same Reason had left him. Anger still lingered, but it was regret and longing that consumed him.

Erik closed his eyes. He wondered what the dawn would bring, as he awaited the wrath of the law. For the remaining course of the darkness, however, Erik chose to dream.


	5. Musings

**Author's Note:** Ah set-a you ap! No, no subtle hints to future ideas in here, huh. ;) More agonizing drama to come, lol. This is what we call housekeeping, covering all the bases. Thanks again, everyone's been so encouraging! And a note to **E.M.K.** : Not at all a bad idea, especially since they would be swearing in court. Plausible denial and the like. Fortunately, I've already got this bitch mapped out. Just wait and see. ;D

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**V : Musings**

Madame Giry arrived precisely on time with her daughter, clad in proper fitting, practical black and gray skirts, with her hair in a long braid twisted to the back of her head. She was a woman with no years on her face, a quick, no-nonsense smile, and pale, watchful eyes. Immediately upon meeting her, Arnoux realized questioning her would only be a waste of his time, despite the rumors surrounding her name. She had entered his territory heavily guarded, with impenetrable defenses.

"Inspector Arnoux," Arnoux introduced himself again, for courtesy's sake, and Madame Giry only nodded once. She touched her daughter's shoulder, and Meg politely took his offered hand with a sweet smile so like, and yet unlike, that of her mother.

"My daughter," Madame Giry replied, and both pale brows raised. "Now if you please, Inspector, we are previously engaged. If we could begin, I would be very grateful."

"Of course, I'll not keep you waiting," Arnoux smiled, to ease the tension, and again it was Meg alone who returned it. "Now I am certain you have both heard all the rumors of what it is I have in my holding cells. I assure you, he is nothing but a man, and my bringing you to him has only good purpose. I request you control yourselves, though I am certain you will both be all right," Arnoux hesitated, and gave Meg a quick look-over. "Perhaps not the girl."

"I promise I will not faint," Meg said, and crossed her heart with delicate fingers.

"Very well," Arnoux beckoned them to follow. "Come, then." He lead them to the block door, and held it open for them. As they passed, he took special notice of Madame Giry's expression. The emotionless blue eyes stared forward, unchanging. Compassion shadowed somewhere within as she approached Erik's cell, but Arnoux could see that the woman betrayed nothing, save her resilience. Rumors always sprouted from a variation of truth, that much he knew, and further more his higher senses told him they were bound to one another in some way. Arnoux knew that way would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove.

Erik was pacing, and when the three bodies appeared before the bars he immediately stood to the side, certain to keep the part of his face the mask would not cover to the wall. He managed to tilt his head in their direction adequately for conversation, however. For one who had so little contact with people of the outside world, this Phantom knew how to address others in such a way that kept them bizarrely curious, uneasy, but also entirely locked out of his true intentions. Since the incident his wounds were healing, slowly, and he had almost picked up a further arrogance. Erik dared them, and when none spoke, a smile twisted on his mouth.

Thirty years of experience had earned Arnoux the ability to see through any mask, and as good as he was, Erik was no exception.

"Monsieur Erik," he said loudly, and was given the man's attention. "Might I ask if either of these ladies seem familiar to you? Have you ever seen them before?" Meg frowned at him, and Arnoux waved his hand expansively. "Just for my own satisfaction, Mamselle Giry." Meg kept her curious frown, and looked back to the Phantom. He strained his eyes to see them both over without turning, raking his gaze over Madame Giry twice before deciding on an appropriate reply. His dark brows contorted, and he shook his head.

"Never," Erik answered, simply.

Arnoux's brows arched in surprise, but his smile retained good nature. Often the most innocent of questions could betray whole truths through the subtlest of body language. "Never? But surely – you have lived your life at the Opera, you must know that Madame Giry is the ballet instructor."

Erik began pacing again, and this time let his body turn fully, earning a slight gasp from Meg. Her mother frowned at her, disapprovingly, and Meg murmured an apology. Arnoux found it impossible to read the man – pacing indicated uncertainty, but nothing uncertain was apparent in the way Erik held himself. He seemed irritated, not wary of saying too much, or too little.

"Inspector, I am a composer," he finally responded, and came to a stop. His sardonic gaze fell on Meg, who stared back with wide brown eyes. "Dancing has never taken my interest. It is dull, repetitive grace with no purpose. Puppets on a composer's string." Meg's eyes changed, as if she wanted to be insulted by the snide remark, but was far too fascinated with the Phantom of the Opera to care. Arnoux thanked Erik, and his two guests, offering to escort them back outside the block. He noticed, however, that Madame Giry did not order her daughter to follow. She seemed almost unconcerned with how close Meg was to what the city called a cornered animal. Bits of their conversation reached his ears, as he neared the end of the cell-lined hallway.

"Your face," Meg murmured, quietly, and Erik snorted.

"What of my face," he turned so she could see the side of his scalp that his otherwise thick, dark hair hung over, in several unruly pieces. "Does it frighten you?"

"It is bleeding," Meg touched her own lip as if she were a mirror, and Erik realized he tasted blood. His lip had not healed, and the swollen flesh had broken again.

"Madam Giry," Arnoux began, tentatively. "I have only one further question, as I do not wish to keep you," Madame Giry nodded. "I am told you knew of Mamselle Daae's coaching for sometime, and of her progressing performance. I wish to know, whom did you think was teaching her?"

"There were many stories, Monsieur, of her father's spirit, of an Opera Ghost," Madame Giry's eyes fell to the cell block, easily, keeping watch on her daughter. "You must understand that we at the Opera house take things as these very seriously. Superstitions are as real as you and I." Blue, certain eyes flicked to him with an undeniable finality. She was finished being questioned. Arnoux nodded, holding his hands up in retreat. Madame Giry turned to face him fully, her hands folded at her narrow waist and her gaze level with his. "Now, Inspector, I have a question for you,"

"Of course,"

"Christine Daae has not returned to her dormitory in four days, and my girls are upset. Do you know where she is?" Arnoux nodded, and after a moment comprehension dawned on her face. "Staying with the Vicomte, then? Good. She is safest there, I should think."

"Not so," Arnoux replied. "She visits this place often, sometimes coming to speak with him," he gestured to the cell block. "Other times... just watching him. She forgets, sometimes, I think. It is easy to forget, when you look at him. Pity overcomes it. But he is a murderer," Arnoux chewed on his lower lip, and arched his brows. "And he will pay for it. He pays for it even now."

Madame Giry regarded him quietly. She turned to watch her daughter. Something was written so plainly on her face, something of responsibility and justification, but Arnoux could not see through her defenses. "I think, perhaps, he has paid for it his entire life," Madame Giry averted her eyes. "But what am I to know," she said. "I am a ballet instructor. Come, Meg."

Arnoux shot a hand out, gently touching her elbow. "Please, Madame Giry, may I request your presence tomorrow?"

"I am sorry, no,"

"The next day, perhaps?"

"My daughter and I are leaving Paris, for good. The city has become far too uneasy for us. For my nerves, my health."

"Ah, and where are you relocating to?"

"There is a house unclaimed in my name, left to me by my uncle. He passed, some years ago," she said evenly. "It is in the country. It will do her good to see outside Paris."

"It would do us all some good, Madame," Arnoux replied. "Godspeed."

"And you, Inspector. Meg Giry," she said, an octave louder and a sharp snap to her tone that made Arnoux almost jump out of his skin. "Enough dawdling, my dear, quickly now."

At the Phantom's cage, Meg turned at her mother's voice, who was already striding to the door. Erik still paced, slower this time, back and forth. He watched her. His mask only concealed so much of his deformity, and Meg had not flinched again. She had the strength, and beauty of her mother. Erik stilled, and did not inflict the sight upon her any longer. He retreated to his bunk.

"You should be leaving," he told her, quietly. "Your mother calls you."


	6. The Disenchanted

**Author's Note**: The time, she approaches. :D Thanks for all your support, I'm having a blast writing this. And yay for Phantom, even if it was totally ignored at the Globes tonight. Cheers

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**VI : The Disenchanted **

Raoul was breathing unevenly. His distinct pattern of a sigh, a pause, and another sigh told Christine her lover was not resting easy this night. One arm circled heavily about her waist, drawing them as close together as they were allowed to be these days. His body barely grazed hers, and while a barrier of warmth lingered between them he still traced gentle circles on her forearm with his index finger. Five nights kept them apart, despite Raoul's letting her cry to sleep in the safety of his arms, but Christine knew that he had not slept either. In the beginning, before the arrest, it had been to protect her against the threat of the Phantom, but not now. It was something else. What, she could not form the words even in thought, but she did know that even if his conscience had not bore down on him as hers had, the Phantom of the Opera locked behind bars did not grant him rest, or ease.

For Christine, guilt was useless, and she was beginning to realize as much. It was heavy, and it was real, but it was as exhausting as it was pointless. Raoul had heard from Arnoux that Erik's trial would begin in two days, and he would have to be moved in secrecy. A bounty for seventy-thousand francs lay on his head. The people of Paris would not be satisfied with the city's justice, nor with God's. Not even their own wrath of cruelty did they see as enough to replace the blood the monster spilled. Had Erik been in the body of any other man, none would have even given him a second thought.

The Phantom of the Opera's worst sin was not murder, it was the hideous malformation of his face, and the mere thought lapsed Christine into emotional exhaustion. She was no better than those in Erik's life who gave to his destruction and removal from the places of light, because she too had betrayed him for something so petty, so pitiful. It was not even her own crimes that sickened her the most, it was that Erik had no control over his physical being. He would change it, if he could, and a thousand times over; but he could not, and he would die for it. His hopelessness had seeped into the cracks of her soul, and weighed her down. Erik was naked before the world, to be judged by those with no right to judge him. Christine frowned, and she shifted ever so slightly in the sheets.

"It is not their place," she breathed, the faintest whisper, and beside her Raoul went rigid. In the darkness he lifted his head to see if she was fully awake, and moved his fingers to push her thick curls from her pale, drawn face.

"Christine?" he murmured, gently, his voice slurred as if sleep had finally began to bestow its mercy.

Christine turned in the sheets, and searched to find the shine of his eyes, looking on to them with a thoughtful gaze. "Raoul," she said. "It is not their place to justify murder, with murder," Raoul regarded her quietly, and he tilted his head, sleepily.

"Ah - No, darling," Raoul ran his hands through his hair. "No - Inspector Arnoux promised he would not leave the Phantom to the people's justice. He promised because he saw how it hurt you." Raoul sat up, and suppressed a groan as he reached over to light the beside lamp, grateful for an excuse to extinguish some of the hovering darkness. He shook his head, squinting. "Christine, what are you...?"

She pulled herself up against the headboard, and the sheets covered her delicate front. "I should have never exposed him to them," she whispered, not grief stricken, but alive with thought. "Raoul, he does not deserve what you and I have done to him."

"Christine," Raoul began, patiently. "He is a killer. He might have killed you, he - I know it's painful, but you cannot forget what he has done."

Christine touched his face, gently, with the tips of her cold fingers. "I'll never forget what he is," she replied softly. "But Raoul - it was God who put him here. God made him separate from us, God was the one who made the decision to give him his face," she took her hand back, "instead of yours, or yours his. It was His choice, Raoul. And it is God," Christine finished, "Not man, who should judge him."

Raoul found no words. He stared at her for a long time. He loved her, and he feared for her - but in his heart, he knew she was right. Christine asked him to love her, and Raoul did more than anything. Before he even asked the question, he knew the answer.

"What is it you're asking me to do?" he whispered, and Christine said nothing. Raoul closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. He could do it, he had the power to do what she asked of him, and he knew it. Raoul inhaled deeply, and he let his face fall into his hands, trying to sort through the myriad of mixed feelings. Raoul knew what this also might mean, and he didn't hate it, he didn't twist with jealousy - it gave him grief.

"Christine," he said, quietly, his voice muffled by his hands. "I will do anything for you. I love you so that... when we're apart, even for an hour, a day, I can't stand being that alone. I love you. So I want you to know, before you speak, that your answer will not change mine," Raoul drew in a sharp breath, and looked up at her, searching her eyes. "Are you going to...leave me?"


	7. The Resolute

**Author's Note: **I'm being pulled three ways: I've got my E/C lobbyists, my 'please **don't** kill him' lobbyists, my 'please **do** kill him' lobbyists, and then those dear people who basically say 'do what you'll do, I trust your judgment'. I appreciate that, because I have this mapped out very clearly. :D Just-a trust me! Thanks for reading this, and thanks muchly for the support!

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**VII : The Resolute**

Arnoux was uneasy. The sun poisoned the whole of the sky with red, and as the dying intensity of the afternoon dithered into a heavy gray dusk Arnoux kept his watch on the streets. He stood before the front window. Lamplighters skittered to work, and one by one spots of yellow blossomed to line the cobblestone streets. Faces distorted by the smothered light turned to peer at him from their place down below, as if they would have a chance to catch one last glance of the monster.

The Phantom was set to leave at midnight, and the rumors of numerous bounties, some of up to 50,000 francs, had not quieted in the least. Arnoux feared for him, for reasons he could not understand. Pity only stretched so far, but what he witnessed in the last four days had clung to him. It lingered like an unfinished deed, a thought that wouldn't go away no matter how many times dismissed. Arnoux was aware, now and more than ever, of his lack of control. Erik's fate rest in powers beyond those of men. If the mob were to return, he would not appeal to their consciences again. The people had a way of hardening to words.

With one last look at the darkened city, Arnoux drew the curtain closed. Turning around, he faced his officers; all awaiting his orders, scrawny and shaking out of their uniforms. "You know what is expected of you," Arnoux told them, and when they nodded he inhaled deeply, feeling a headache come on. He took the cell keys from one of the boys as he passed.

Erik was not resting. Of course he wasn't resting. The man knew as well as his keeper what waited outside. He followed Arnoux's movement's with watchful eyes, distrusting, as the inspector opened the door of his cell. Arnoux stepped inside, pulling the visitor's chair from the hall. Erik made a move to once again cheat Arnoux out of seeing what a mask would not cover. Arnoux ignored the gesture, and doggedly lowered himself into the chair.

"I would not want you to think this a habit of mine," he said. "I don't usually spend my evenings with my prisoners in their cells." The Phantom gave no reply, though inquiry lay plain on the visible half of his face. The strong jaw was set, bruised but heavy with dignity, and his dark brow arched neatly above a calculating blue eye. No prisoner could have looked more out of place than Erik did. Arnoux threw a glance to the end of the otherwise empty cell block, and drew a sharp breath. "After the events of the past four days, I'm certain you know of the reaction the people have taken to you. To this. They do not want justice, they want mob justice. No trial, no considerations. Just death, through the means they see suit one like you best," he wearily ran both hands through his hair, and Erik snorted wryly.

"It seems to me what a murderer would deserve," he replied. Erik wasted no energy on words, and his voice was rough, and quiet. "Let them have their justice."

Arnoux shook his head. "You've not lived entirely in these times, monsieur Erik, but you know how a crowd of angry, confused people turn murderous at the drop of a hat. If the laws are not upheld then chaos and destruction come swiftly in their stead. The law must be upheld."

"I did not heed your laws," Erik challenged. "The good public abhors abnormality and evils. Let them return my favor, an eye for an eye. Let them have their justice." His surrender could not be described as defeat, as defeat suggests an end against one's will. Erik welcomed demise, it was evident in the very air around him. He did not want a trial, he wanted closure, and was willing to take it anyway it was offered.

Arnoux stared at him, until silence settled like a blanket in the small space between them."I do not believe in that."

"You do not believe that?" Erik turned, and allowed Arnoux a glimpse of what lay behind his mask, as if reminding him what he and his values were truly up against. "You might believe in that, if it was your life that was given no value. I could kill you now."

A smile tugged at the corner of Arnoux's mouth. "You have no weapons."

"I have all that I need," Erik replied. "The sheet on this bunk. In the blink of an eye I could have it around your neck. You are considerably stronger than I am, and so I would have to break it instead of suffocating you. That would be the easy part. You, of course, would struggle. That would leave me only seconds from when you first alert your guards to the moment they burst through that door to save you. I, however, would be long gone," Erik did not smile. He looked past Arnoux, and his grave expression seemed to dissolve to ash. "Perhaps you have not learned that what you believe is only a product of blind pity. I may not, to you, have been a monster from my birth. Even if that is so, a monster is what I have most certainly become," his eye flicked back to regard the inspector. "Oh yes, monsieur. I could kill you now."

"But you won't," Arnoux said, resting his chin on the junction of his folded hands. "Because I am no threat to you. Because you don't enjoy doing it nearly as much as you would like the world to think that you do." Erik said nothing, but Arnoux saw he'd touched a chord. "You're not stupid, Erik. I don't have to tell you to be wary. You know what awaits you."

Erik nodded, slowly, resigned to finally hear the man out. "Yes. I do."

"Your move will be secret," Arnoux said, coming to his feet. "My officers will escort you to the courthouse, to keep you protected from certain parties. Certain parties that are...willing to pay a fair amount to have you."

"That is the way you want it."

"That is the way it is," Arnoux replied, smoothly. He came to his feet, and pushed the chair back to the wall. He reached for his coat. "One more thing, before I take my leave," he said, as he slipped into his coat. "If you wanted to change, I think, perhaps, you would change for her," Arnoux stepped outside the cell, and he closed the door, locking it. "Whatever your fate, she will never forget. Goodnight, monsieur."

Again, Erik held his peace, and Arnoux made his last trip from the Phantom's cell to the double doors, and stepped out into the night. It was dark now, and his wife – Marie – would be expecting him for dinner. What would happen this night was out of his hands, and he took bitter comfort in knowing Erik, at least, had long since accepted his fate.

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**Post Notes**  
The next few are going to really play on the whole vignette idea. Events are going to take place, but because of time and this vignette style, I'm not going to go entirely into them. I'm going to keep confusion out of it, so just bear with me. Thanks!


	8. Scenario

**Author's Note:** I will be the first to say that I don't like this installment. It's what you call 'necessary'. A set up for the next, which I know will cause quite an uproar. I've already signed my will, set all the funeral arrangements, so I'll gladly accept death as a punishment for the next installment. This one? Hey, what can I say, I like suspense. That's about it. Thanks, for all the support! You're a great crowd to write for. :D

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**VIII : ****Scenario**

It seemed to Raoul that Inspector Arnoux was a man of far too much faith. His plan thus far had proved effective, as Paris seemed empty and silent with disinterest. The Phantom of the Opera was a passing excitement, and by the next morning the trial would be the talk of the city, but by then he would be in the hands of the law. No crowds awaited his departure, and only a simple black coach veiled with heavy dark curtains sat before the jail.

Erik's arms were again twisted uncomfortably behind his back, but Arnoux had specifically ordered he be allowed to keep his mask on. Most of the bounties in the city were set at meager amounts, sums only successful merchants could afford. However, one contract offered an inconceivable fifty-thousand francs to bring the Phantom "alive but managed", blindfolded, to the Saint Joseph Chapel on the hill outside Paris. After midnight, it was always empty.

Arnoux could not have known of this bounty, because it was not advertised on the streets. The Vicomte de Chagney made a point of hiring only specific partners to execute the job, anonymously, and for fifty-thousand francs the men were willing to track the coach.

Raoul kept a safe distance. He would not follow them.

"Come on, then, inside." With less force than the last time he was forced into a cab, Erik's head was pushed under the rise of the coach, and two officers followed suit. The younger one, a pimply faced blond boy far too scrawny for his own good, appeared to have assumed charge of the operation. He sat across from Erik, and after settling awkwardly into the seat shook a finger in the Phantom's face. "Now you behave, and we'll see you're all right. Not so much as a word out of you," he ordered, and Erik stared at him, unwilling to speak for this young man's satisfaction. It was that way for most of the ride, the boy making offhand comments to Erik, as if expecting a word in return despite his command for silence. The older officer had fallen asleep.

Escape would have been far too easy. Erik took the time for himself, and looked out past the window's curtain. There was nothing there, only black, but he pictured it differently in his mind's eye. Paris was not so ugly a city when one could only imagine it. Erik found it more to his liking that way. He closed his eyes, and waited for the time when he would again be placed in a cell, and granted his solitude once more. He dozed. Not even the Phantom felt the subtle change in the coach's direction as the minutes turned into the best part of an hour. Distantly, doubt settled in his unconscious though, and it occurred to him: the courthouse was not so far from the jail. He awoke, perhaps too late.

The coach halted, and the pimply-faced officer scowled, not even bothering to listen to the voices that lingered outside the cab. Erik felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Indeed, there should have been no stops. Erik shot the younger officer an alarmed look, and the boy just waved his hand in irritable dismissal.

"About bloody time," he muttered, and fit his cap onto his head. He gave his prisoner a warning, and Erik watched the boy open the door and step out into the road. Through the door, Erik saw there was no street, just a dirt road, and trees. Paris lay forgotten behind them. Every impulse revolted, but Erik remained rigid in his seat. Something was not right, and when he heard a yelp he froze. His fears lurched somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and he swore softly. The worse had happened.

The officer's head was shoved through the open door, and a hand gripped him by the stringy pale hair. It was a meaty hand, with cord-like fingers and a strong forearm. Erik looked to the older officer, who was barely stirring awake. He came to a panicked consciousness, and fumbled for his pistol.

"Samuel," the boy squeaked, and moaned when someone behind him jammed a pistol into his own back. "Some men out here – wish to speak with us." Samuel cocked his weapon, but the boy was torn out of the door, and replaced with another man holding a knife to the vulnerable flesh of his throat. "Samuel!"

"Slide your weapons this way," the thin man ordered. "Do it, and there will be no trouble. We have not come for you, but we are not unwilling to cut your friend's throat in order to ensure your further cooperation."


	9. Bitter, and Accepted

**Author's Note: **Apologies. I hope it's liked, it was a tough one to write. Thank you for putting up with my ambiguiety, and thanks for the reviews! :D

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**IX : Bitter, and Accepted**

The Saint Joseph Chapel was an empty, silent witness.

"Well then," the first of Erik's new captors husked - Maurice, a tiny man with bony hands and a shaking disposition. Weak. His teeth were yellow, and his thin face hung about his skull in folds of dark wrinkles, with tufts of white hair afflicting his almost non-existent chin in an attempt at a beard. "Shall we look at his face?"

Thomas, the second and larger of the two, wordlessly seized Erik by the arm and shoved him into the wall, letting his body slide down brick by brick to sit against it. Erik shifted, uncomfortably, but Thomas pinned one of his shoulders roughly in place. His arms were still bound behind him, and allowed for no resistance. What these hunters had planned they would most certainly get away with, as the little church on the hill was emptied for the night.

Thomas crouched menacingly before the Phantom, and Erik turned away. The big man squinted at him in the darkness, as if trying to decide just what to make of this quiet murderer, and scratched his beard with a nail-less forefinger.

"He's handsome on this side," Thomas observed, mockingly, and gripped Erik's chin with chubby fingers, forcing his face level with his own. Maurice impatiently scrabbled to remove the mask, squealing excitedly. Thomas shrugged him off. "Would you wait?" he snapped. "I want him to tell me," Thomas played the air for Erik's eyes, but the Phantom refused to look at him. Long pieces of dark copper hair still provided protection. "What is it like?" the thief breathed, soft and cruel. "Being hideous. What is it like to be hated so?"

Erik waited a moment, before rolling his sharp, pale eyes over to Thomas' face in cool regard. He ignored the hold on his jaw. "Wouldn't you know the answer to that?" was his even reply, and it was Maurice who rooted his fingers in Erik's dark hair, twisting his head from his partner's grip. He ripped the mask off of his face. A cry of horror let his fingers spring free, and the little man stumbled away from Erik. The Phantom watched his mask fall idly into the melting snow, far out of his reach. Part of him sank, a shallow wish to only have it on his person again, so they might not be able to truly find him. The mask lay over pieces of smothered yellow grass, still warm, and entirely unaware of its own separation. Erik leaned, fruitlessly, in its direction, but the sting of the cold air on his deformed flesh chilled his bones, and brought him back to focus.

"God in Heaven," Thomas murmured, in soft horror. "He can't have been born this way, Maurice." His dirty fingers ran over the ridges of risen flesh beneath the Phantom's eye, and Erik jerked away from the touch. He bared his teeth, unable to escape the man's bizarre fixation. He pressed himself as far into the wall as was possible.

"Enough," Maurice snapped, keeping his wide eyes on Erik's face as he dug through a dirty brown sack. He removed a heavy book, obviously having been untouched for some years, as the smell of dust filled the cold air. "We have work to do, we don't want him fighting again."

"Well get the book open. Turn to the drawings!" Thomas ordered, having forgotten the freak, and remembered the bounty. He gripped Erik beneath the arms and heaved him over to the steps of the church. When he landed his back cracked against the hard cement, and the beast of a man held him fast in place. A knife pressed into his throat, and broke the flesh a little more with every breath Erik dragged in. Warm blood trickled, and pooled around the junction of his collar bone. "The drawings, Maurice!"

"I'm reading," Maurice replied, defensively, and concentrated a moment. A bony finger traced the lines on the page. He glanced over at them, biting his lip. "You'll have to turn him over."

Instinct triggered, and Erik jerked violently back from the knife's edge. He tried to back away, but Thomas struck him hard across the face with the extra chains clenched in his fist. White, hot pain spread like fire from his cheekbone, to his eyes, and even as far as his scalp. He gritted his teeth, hard, and repressed a strangled cry. Saliva and bile rose in his throat. Erik stumbled, and balked on the stair, but the chain came down again, hard, before he was ready to defend himself. Erik recoiled, curling protectively around the source of pain. His white shirt beat hard around his frame as the wind battled him for its territory. Erik doggedly tried to lift his body off the steps, the backs of his hands bloodied from scraping the stone, but Thomas delivered another merciless, stunning blow to the side of his head. He fell back.

Hands gripped his shoulders, and pushed him hard, stomach down, onto the steps. His cheek scraped on the rough concrete as Thomas kept his arms pinned in a twist at the small of his back, and the large man moved on top of him. His knee buried into the blackening bruise of his side, and every time the colossal man shifted breath was forced, hard, from Erik's lungs. He wheezed for the air that could not properly return down his throat fast enough. He thought he might die.

"Now what?" Thomas was handed the knife again, but Erik could not see beyond the flash of metal in the dim lantern light. "Quickly, now!"

Maurice fumbled with the pages. "There," he pointed to where Erik's ribs crushed against the step. Thomas moved his leg over, and tapped the thin material of his shirt to confirm. "Yes, there! No stabbing, just a shallow cut," Maurice snapped, biting a long brown nail as he watched Thomas pull the shirt to the side, and expose the Phantom's skin to the night air. Erik struggled beneath him, but Thomas' weight only brought more pain, and the man held his head down with one palm, pressing his unmarred cheek into the pavement. Maurice groped a handful of flesh, pulling it tight to give the tip of the knife no resistance.

Erik knew only more pain would come with resistance, and pain was a thing he could endure, more so than most. The whole of his childhood had been pain, and in those early years he had found a way to fight it: teeth clenched, eyes screwed shut, as he braced every muscle in his body for the mind-numbing, horrid sensation. Even as the knife dragged along his side, and his skin was split in a four inch long streak beneath his ribs, Erik did not scream. He did not scream, but as the agony intensified his breathing became ragged, and he managed to hold back all but a soft, hopeless cry, emitted by his heaving chest; crushed between Thomas and the edge of the stair. Exhaustion of fighting the hopeless battle drained him, and Erik, as his body weakened and the pain sickened him entirely, did not hear his own throat breathe a half-sob. A name, broken and lost with no other in the world, fell from his bloodied lips.

"Who is Christine?" Thomas wondered, brash and aloud. "His mother, do you think?"

He was vaguely aware of Maurice's weasel-y voice above him. "Managed, not dead, idiot!"

"But he is stronger than he looks," Thomas said through a wide grin, and stroked Erik's hair with a twisted tenderness. He let his big palm up from his victim's skull, and Erik immediately gasped a croaking breath. Slowly, ever so slowly he began to regain something of his composure. Then Thomas chuckled. It was a soft, observing chuckle, one that took obvious delight in seeing him down, desperate to break the surface of his own misery. The sound ate its way through Erik's fog. Fog turned to red fury, and a surge of adrenaline gave him strength to twist beneath Thomas, thrusting hard enough with his shoulder to make awkward the angle. Thomas was caught entirely off his guard, and Erik was free and on his back in a second. With a desperate ferocity he delivered a powerful kick to his captor's chest, and sent the big man sprawling backward in a heap of arms and legs. Maurice hesitated before he shot forward to regain control.

It was Thomas, however, who knocked his only defense aside, and seized the bleeding man by the waist of his trousers by fisting the material in both hands. A moment passed, where he snarled at Erik with spit and blood flying between his teeth before he dragged him off of the steps, scraping, and leaving a dark red trail. Erik growled rather than cry out, and his own blood rubbed onto his painfully twisted arms. His own body weight assaulted them with burning pain. Erik was again forced onto his back, and Thomas dug thick fingers into his knees, prying them apart and slamming both to the ground, pinning them with his own weight.

"He can still use his legs!" Thomas snarled, voice tight with pain. The knife's handle pressed painfully into the hard slope of Erik's inner thigh. "Where?"

"I - I -" Maurice stammered, and licked his thumb, frantically turning the pages with shaking fingers. It was his last chance to get away from them. Another moment, and he would be far too weak. Erik thrashed, desperately violent in his last moments, but Thomas proved stronger. With his own body, Thomas bore down Erik's hips to the ground, and with his free hand he cupped the other man's jaw, turning his face roughly away and into the snow. "The back of his thigh - shallow cuts!" Maurice crawled forward, and Thomas barked orders for him to cover Erik's eyes. Two hands, large and bony and slicked with sweat pressed against his shut eyes, and the little man's palms lifted slightly, with obvious hesitation to touch the malformed side of his face. Erik's only remaining freedom was darkened, but still he struggled. They were feeble movements; a twitch, a jerk. Maurice pressed harder. "Across, not along the muscle!"

Thomas made a frustrated noise, and pried Erik's leg off of the ground. He held it firmly with an iron grip over his own bent knee, and did not wait even a second before he blindly slashed across the muscle of Erik's mid-thigh. All resolve shattered, all control broke, and Erik was released into darkness, a nothingness of pain. He cried out, and the reverberating sound disturbed even Maurice. The cry was more of a deep-throated scream of agony, a primal, guttural scream that beat the breath from his lungs. An animal, suffering so greatly, and utterly trapped at the mercy of its killer. Erik's rigid resistance collapsed, and his defeated body slacked against the unfeeling ground. Barriers crumbled, and he could no longer cry the pain out. The power of his deafening scream reduced to drawn-out gasps, and pitiful moans. Maurice released him, shaking, and even as Erik opened his eyes, heavy with forced tears, he could not see. Black patched out the deep star-specked sky. He fought for his senses, and yet one by one they abandoned him, like all else. His head swam, and Erik distantly felt Thomas roll off of him. It hardly mattered now.

From somewhere, if anywhere, Maurice gave a relieved, breathless chuckle. "Managed," he said.


	10. Decide

**Author's Note:** Yes, yes, that last one I deserve to be smacked for. It was not at all my favorite to write, because like I said, these are not so much ordered chapters in a sequence of events as they are captured moments in time. That means the _order_ is in the details and implications of the text, making it not the easiest read, I guess, but if everything was taken at face value there would be no such thing as Literature and Composition classes. Which is debatably a bad thing ;) So skimming probably isn't a very good idea (my whole point of doing vignette's, for the sake of attention spans), especially since this story is nearing an end. So again, **this may at first put you in the middle of nowhere, but if you read on you'll get hints, and references in the text of how and why they came to be here.** Again, thanks for the support, it's _greatly_ appreciated. :)

--- --- ---

**X : Decide**

Erik awoke to blood. Thick, still warm, and sticking his shirt to his chest. He did not even bother to hide his face, as part of him knew he was in darkness, alone. Thomas still lay atop him, and although the man had been dead for some time now, he still had a hold over Erik. His fingers were stiff and cold, digging into Erik's thighs, his bloodless, bloated face pressed into his chest. His mistake had been to unchain his victim's arms, and to assume Erik would not take the chance of escape again. The scuffle ended in Thomas' knife burying into Erik's leg once more. He had not even pulled it out – Erik had done that, and seconds after he had ripped it from his own muscle, Erik slashed once across Thomas' blubbery throat. He blacked out, after that, as Thomas gasped and bled out over him. It had been a single spurt of all the energy he had managed to gather, and Maurice did not bother sticking around to see if there was any fight left in the man. He had fled, somewhere. Erik could not find the strength to care. By the end of the longest night of his life, he would be dead.

The Phantom let his head fall back against the smooth brick wall of the church. The sight of the city below, the Opera Populaire illuminated in silent glory, all rolled out of his view. And there were only the stars, glittering and untouchable as Heaven itself. They went on, unchanging, over the courses of so many lives of men, and that was why Erik chose to look on them as he waited to die. The stars were incapable of horror, judgment and malice.

An involuntary breath racked his shivering body, forcing a sharp gasp despite Thomas' bearing weight, and Erik felt a wave of pain break over him again, another reminder that he was not yet dead. He hated that. A lifetime of controlling his own fate surrendered at the last. The blood between himself and the body kept a sort of unholy warmth about him, and every now and then his body would shudder another gasp, a feeble attempt to go on living. Blood and spit dribbled down his chin, and chafed at his neck with the soaked material of his shirt. Perhaps he had made the wrong choice. Perhaps he should have escaped, when Maurice and Thomas were wasting their time mocking him, fascinated with horror at the makings of his face. He had waited too long.

In the long moments of his capture, Erik had lost himself as the man who killed for his self preservation, but had become that little boy again; helpless, hated, and alone. He might have struck then. He might have escaped. Cold air stung the heat of his salty tears, and bitterness welled up inside him to burst. "I might have been anything but this," he whispered, in a voice too weak to even be recognized, but too broken with anger to go unheard. "I might have been brilliant." The stars were unmoved and silent in the breaking night. The same darkness sank in, once more. It was not sleep that took Erik, as he slipped into another dizzy, black void. He did not even close his eyes.

Voices stirred him. It took him a moment to realize it was not many, but one voice; as panicked and urgent as the hands that extricated Thomas' corpse from his body. Cold rushed in, and Erik regained focus in the form of sharp pain, and he dragged in a harsh breath that scraped the passage of his throat and set his heart pounding.

"My God," Raoul was muttering about something, his sharp youthful features stung pink with cold, and bright with urgency. Erik remembered, somewhere in the back of his slowly returning thoughts, that he had no mask. He tried to move away, letting his weight fall to the side, elbows hitting the ground as he attempted to crawl away from the Vicomte. Even if the boy had come alone, he would have preferred Satan himself, touching his burning flesh, comparing him to everything else beautiful in the world. "What happened here?" Raoul demanded, wrapping a hard but warm grip around Erik's arm and pulling him back. He grasped Erik's chin, carefully, with his fingers on the man's throat, seeking a pulse. He searched his face. "It was not bloodshed I wanted."

Erik smiled, an ugly twisting of his bloodied lips.

"Nor I," he rasped, and Raoul's delicate brow contorted into a frown, trying to piece together some of the evidence around him. Erik's chest heaved, and pain moved through him as swiftly as the blood in his veins. Raoul decided not to speak, and Erik saw reluctance make to balk every action of the young Vicomte. Raoul visibly fought it, and removed his top coat, slipping it with great effort around Erik's broad shoulders. The heat from his body still lingered inside, and the sensation of healthy, clean warmth forced another shudder. Erik blinked, slowly, and inhaled through his nose to spare his throat. His eyes fell on Raoul, both naked and suspicious. Raoul ran a hand through his long hair, calculating his next move.

"Why," Erik muttered, as the cold began to fade. Raoul looked at him, straight and for a long moment. He shook his head, once, as if he doubted even his own words. The young man was not here on his own accord.

"Why would a man give aid to his enemy," Raoul finally replied, tired, and thoughtful. "Why else would a man fall to his knees to pluck his mewling enemy out of the snow?" Raoul and Erik could not have differed more in appearance, but in the boy's eyes there was something he recognized. Something Erik could not deny no matter how he wanted to. It was the desperate love of a human being for another human being, and Erik knew it so well he could only pity it. It was a feeling unlike any other, to look the man you hated into the eyes and have sympathy, however faint. Raoul looked away, peeling his dark blue eyes against the wind. "Why else than to be loved by her. Whatever the cost," he looked at Erik, once more, before extending a gloved hand to the Phantom, taking hold of him by the forearm and combining their effort to heave him up. Erik found his footing, but nausea almost buckled his knees, and he fell back to lean against the church wall. Raoul steadied him. "For her peace."


	11. Fear and Revelations

**Author's Note:** I took the liberty of adding in a conflicted-scuffle. Those are always fun. I had a reviewer comment about the stabbing of Erik's leg, and how it might have crippled him. I actually had considered making them slice the Achilles tendon, to give him a bum leg, but I thought it wouldn't really matter with the way the fic is turning out. That's why I made a point of not specifying the depth of the wound, and the exact location. :D But here's some rough-and-tumble. Oh, the end is near.

Thank you, for all your lovely comments!

-

**XI : Fear and Revelations **

He stumbled again, despite Raoul's best efforts to keep him steady. The Phantom was certainly, now more than ever, nothing but a man, and his mortality continued to drag him down to the Earth. His leg buckled, and Erik fell to his hands and knees, panting hard. The coat slipped off of his back, and pooled around his body. He sank, lower, into the snow, and Raoul made another reach for his shoulder.

"Get up," he ordered, and Erik knocked his hand away, recoiling with a ferocious snarl.

"Don't touch me," the shaking, bleeding Phantom snapped. The sight was wrong to the eye. His power had diminished, and he was reduced to a heap of blood, and bruises. Erik's strong jaw was trembling, and the 'good' side of his face was almost as terrible as the horrible one. Dark circles shadowed sunken eyes, and black bruises trailed about his temple and along the line of his jaw. Still-wet blood clung to the corner of his mouth, and ran down in claw-like rivets down his chin and neck. He wrapped his arms around his ribs, and through his thin, billowing shirt Raoul saw his chest and torso were purple and black with blood beneath the olive skin. His ribs expanded painfully with his every breath. Raoul watched him, taking his own heavy breaths with wisps of steam. He shook his head.

"You'll die," Raoul told him, quietly, amidst the ragged gasps. "You have to get up. If you can't, you will die." Raoul's terms were simple, but Erik grimaced, and swallowed hard, only covering his face with a chaffed, bloody hand.

"Then why have you come?" Erik did not care why, and he turned his face away as Raoul bent to try and give him leverage, sliding an arm across his chest to lift him off of the ground. Erik was dead weight against his shoulder, but finally resigned to try it again, his muscles tightening as he braced to stand. Why had the boy come, the question distantly repeated in the very back of his mind. The question doubted not so much why, as how he had known to come to the chapel. It was the dead of night, and nobody had been around.

Erik stumbled. His slashed leg buckled again, and again. Managed, not dead.

"You sent them," Erik husked, in growing realization. Raoul frowned, white-faced, and half in the panic of being found out. Erik stumbled again, and Raoul with him, still trying to hoist the injured man to his feet, but Erik stared into his face, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. "It was you. You sent them," he snarled, and Raoul visibly searched for words in his defense, and finally, with a heave of unexpected strength, pulled Erik up, almost entirely carrying his weight.

"Don't be absurd," Raoul breathed, flattening his right hand on Erik's chest to keep him from falling forward. The Phantom crossed an arm over Raoul, past his hip, and with a strangled cry tore the young man's rapier from his thin sheath. Raoul was too slow, and before he realized what had happened Erik pushed him hard into the snow, crashing atop him in a straddle. His arm was pulled back at a deadly angle, the tip of the sword ready to plow into the soft flesh of the Vicomte's collarbone.

Raoul stared at him, eyes wide with restrained terror, and as the seconds passed between Erik's hesitance he drew his brows tight together. "You are a fool," he bit out. "I have saved your life, twice in the same night when I should have let you die. Get off of me."

"Not a word in your defense, boy," Erik seethed, speaking every word with a pained hate, and the point of the sword pressed dangerously into Raoul's skin. "Are you satisfied?" he asked, and in the moonlight Erik's bruises hollowed his face out, and Raoul inwardly cringed. It touched on his conscience. "Are you satisfied now that you have seen their work! Or did you watch them, with rich pleasure as they broke me!" Erik shifted so the flat of the sword dug hard into his throat. "Or was it enough just to hear me scream, with not a soul in the world to cry out to!"

Raoul's glassy blue eyes did not waver. "I did send them," he whispered, hotly. "It was all I could do to keep you from the noose. I ordered you not to be killed, but I never ordered bloodshed."

Erik appeared to halfway believe him, but he did not yield. His entire body shook with cold and fatigue, but not the arm that held the weapon. His lips trembled, and he lowered himself to Raoul, sliding the weapon down to the hilt to cut the Vicomte's throat when the time came. Raoul followed the Phantom's every move with his eyes, wondering when the final blow would come, and he would be left to die.

It never came. The weapon remained poised, but Erik's dark head sank between his shoulders, and exhaustion took him again.

Raoul did not know how long they remained that way, but he dared not move. A heavy silence settled between them, and Raoul found it was harder to breathe with Erik slacking against him. He wondered if Erik was about to lose consciousness again.

"Without me," Raoul said, hoarsely. "You will die out here. Killing me won't benefit you."

Erik stirred, then, and drew in a slow breath. "I wondered at times," he admitted, quiet and weak. Hateful darkness lingered in his tone, and it was that irrational hate that kept the extent of Raoul's bravery in check. He did not attempt to fight back. "Why I did not just kill you, as well. Like the others who threatened me. If you were gone," Erik's eyes appeared through dangling pieces of dark hair. "She might have seen me for something else. She might have even loved me," the blade slowly moved to the curve of his throat, and Raoul closed his eyes, hard. He prepared himself for the worst. The Phantom gritted his teeth, and with his free hand pulled Raoul's head back by the hair, drawing his arm back to strike. "But you were always there, and you took her from me."

Raoul dared to open his eyes, and jerked his head back from the Phantom's hand. "And if you kill me now, what makes you think she will love you?"

"I have slit one throat tonight," Erik growled. "Rationalizing is a privilege I severely lack at the moment." He moved again, and Raoul realized he could hardly breathe at all now. Erik was crushing him, so he could barely form words. Erik picked the sword up and sat up a little, moving the point to the center of Raoul's chest, just above his pounding heart. Raoul gathered his breath, and cried out before Erik could strike.

"Say her name," he challenged, quickly, and Erik balked. He was visibly shaken, and Raoul felt hope flood back. He watched the Phantom's conflict as it crossed the dark features, and threw off his intent. The bruised face contorted in vacant confusion. Raoul eased his head off the ground, with his shoulders. He stopped when the point pricked him again. "Say her name, Phantom," Raoul whispered again, urgently, and Erik turned his head away, but pressed the blade deeper and Raoul recoiled with a short cry. A little pool of blood collected beneath his shirt. "Christine," Raoul breathed, voice tight with pain. "Her name is Christine. Say her name and then kill me. Say it!"

As if his darker intentions were repelled by the very sound of Christine's name, Erik averted his face the other way, unwilling to listen but unable to ignore. Christine loved him, now, even if her heart belonged to the Vicomte, and if he killed Raoul she would never find it in her to forgive him. The vigor bled out of his hatred, and Erik clenched his teeth, his mouth trembling around them with indecision. His hand finally began to shake around the handle of the rapier, but he did not yield. Raoul watched him, carefully, and the cold flicked across his pale lashes, forcing him to squint.

"Enough blood has been shed," he said, even and fair, and unwavering. "Enough."

The Phantom slowly began to retreat, and Raoul waited until he had dropped the rapier into the snow before moving again. He sat up, tentatively, and Erik only knelt in the snow, catching his breath, and staring vacantly forward. He turned to regard Raoul, exhaust plain on his battered face. His voice was rough, and hoarse with misuse.

"You might have lost her," he said. "One way, or another, by coming for me you might have lost her."

Raoul nodded, and wrapped his coat around his own frame. The cold seemed to have returned to his focus, and beat his long hair past his face. "I know," he replied.

"And still you came," Erik muttered, almost to himself. Both sides of his face were exposed, and as the moonlight was freed from the clouds in the dark sky Raoul could see the side of it better than he ever had. It had all the characteristics of a human being's face, and even with the twisted flesh, Erik's face was only that of a man's. Raoul nodded, again, and Erik stared at him. The Phantom gave only a slight inclination of his dark head, and begrudgingly exhaled. "Foolish of you," he said. Raoul snorted, and a wry smile played on his lips.

"Evidently," he said.


	12. The Awful Sound

**Author's Note:** Nothing much to note about this installment, except, as I always say, THE END IS NEAR. This has really been a blast, again writing for this audience is so much fun. Thanks for your reviews, and critiques, and the chewing gum for my brain :D

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**XII : The Awful Sound**

"She thought the best place for you was back at the Opera Populaire."

Erik listened, quietly, as Raoul opened the door of his carriage, and reached in to draw the dark curtains. Every now and then his hand would slip discreetly into his shirt, and it would come out again tainted with a spot of sticky dark blood. He was trying to ignore whatever pain the enraged Phantom had managed to cause him, and Erik could not deny a hint of satisfaction that rose with Raoul's face contorting when his hand entered his shirt.

It seemed all too familiar, this scene he played in, and far too mortifying to accept help from the boy. Although animosity ate and grated at Erik with all the words that came from the Vicomte's mouth, he knew he had to keep his feelings at bay. He felt alive again, at least, and the burn of pain had died almost entirely into a dull ache. The only reason he was alive was Raoul, and that was enough to make him reel in disgust. He controlled himself.

The coat around his shoulders smelled of cologne, mint, and blood. Erik glanced back over at Raoul, who held the door open for him and stood to the side.

"Then you can bide your time, and if you wish, leave Paris. They can search all they want, wherever it is you hide in there, it is impossible to find," he finished.

"She will not be there, then," Erik murmured, almost to himself, and Raoul regretfully shook his head.

"She insisted on waiting," Erik shot him a look, and Raoul challenged it with his own level stare. The boy's jaw was set in defiance. "Inside, if you please, let's not wait for the snow to melt," he said with a note of impatience, and at that Erik arched his dark brow over his free eye. He snorted, and crossed his arm over to his side to grip the still-tender wound while moving stiffly into the coach with a click of his tongue.

"Rudeness is unbecoming a gentleman," he said, with a certain wear to his mockery, and Raoul grimaced as he stepped in after. The door was closed, and the driver shook the reigns. Erik waited for the jerk of the start, and he was finally able to close his eyes as the coach began to depart. The cabin slowly warmed with the natural heat from their bodies as the relief of escape finally began to settle in the space between them. Erik took a deep breath, and let it linger in his raw-worn lungs before exhaling. Escaped. He had escaped, at last, and in the quiet of the cab he found momentary peace. The price of that peace was soon to come, but for now Erik put his mind elsewhere.

"Damn," Raoul swore softly, after a moment, and Erik opened his eyes again to see the young man had removed his outer layers. He was moving gingerly, so as not to disturb the other body in the coach, and when he saw Erik looking at him clear disappointment flickered across his expression. Wordlessly he resumed blotting at the tiny wound on his chest with a piece of bandage. The angry red around the gash slowly faded to a bruised shade of dark pink, and because Raoul could not make any ties or attach it at present he closed his shirt, and began to redress. He eyed Erik as he did so, as if trying to make out why the Phantom seemed to be observing his every move. The tension was thick enough to reach out and grab, tangible, and almost suffocating.

There was a tie of shaky trust between them, a dependence that could not be denied, but was stretched far beyond its own limits. The mere fact that Raoul had not bound Erik again by the wrists and ankles said something about his courage, but the Phantom knew better than to trifle with him again. Raoul's particular attention to the blood spot over his heart was a constant reminder of what he had almost lost for love, but also what Erik was capable of even in his weakened state. Erik fought a smile. He liked the idea.

"You're going to have to wrap those," Raoul finally said, nodding to where red stained the once white shirt hanging off of Erik's shoulders. He ran jaded hands through his unruly pale hair, and picked up the roll of dressings on his seat to hand to the Phantom. Erik only stared fixedly at it, as if torn between his dignity and his natural instinct to heal. He had almost a pout on his face, with his bottom jaw jutted forward and his nostrils flared. Raoul took that as a definite signal not to be bothered. He tossed a handful of white cloth at Erik, and it landed in the other man's lap. "Then clean your face off, at least," he snapped. "It won't do her any good to see you covered in blood."

Erik bit his tongue, and rather than backhanding the young Vicomte, he gingerly began wiping at the drying blood on his chin, wary of the tender bruises along the side of his face and jaw. They felt hollow, as if the bone beneath had been turned to powder beneath the bleeding skin. When he finished with his face, Raoul silently passed him a second bandage roll. Erik removed the coat, again with great care not to brush his injuries, and bit by bit peeled off his tattered open shirt.

The shallow cut that marred and stung his side was dry now, and crusted with brown blood. Aside from the initial pain – and the bite it made when his finger tips touched it – it was only a troublesome flesh wound. He wrapped the cloth around his middle. Raoul observed that even in the dark the bruises seemed to have become larger, and worse than earlier. They were about to begin their rainbow cycle, and in the failing light only appeared as hollow spaces of darkness blotched over his chest and torso. The discoloring spread like plague-stricken fingers, twisting and turning about the shape of his muscle. Blood blisters pattered the skin with tiny red veins, and Raoul did not realize his expression had mounted to disgust until Erik laughed. It was a ghost of the booming, menacing sound it should have been, and came out as more of a nasty chuckle laced with bitter satisfaction.

"I'll not be offended if you look away," he said. "Bruises make a perfect companion for this hideous visage, and there is no shame in avoiding nausea, dear Vicomte."

Raoul regarded him with narrowed eyes, dark blue now. "I was looking to see if you needed help, actually." he said.

Erik tied the edge of the bandage. "I know what you cannot help but stare at," he replied, evenly, and Raoul noted that he was making no further attempts to hide his face. He let it remain exposed, and Raoul shamelessly allowed his eyes wander across it again. The lower lid of his eye was pulled down by the constriction of its own flesh, and the corner of his upper lip was pushed out slightly farther than the other side. He flicked his gaze back to the Phantom's. Erik cocked his head. "I cannot fault you for it, you are a victim of human nature," he turned his attention back to his work. "As am I."

The stab wounds in his leg were next, and Erik lifted his leg on the seat to wrap his thigh. As he did so, Raoul averted his eyes, and sat back in his seat.

"It isn't your face that bothers me, monsieur," was all he said. It earned a pause.

Erik reached into the torn material of his pants leg and separated it. The black threads ripped easily apart, and the trousers stuck to the drying blood. He tied that bandage very tight, to allow pressure to do it's work. Raoul said nothing else.

Time passed, as it did, and both men settled back into the comfort of the velvet seat cushions, silent in thought. The ride in the coach was, on one hand, lulling. It was calm, and peaceful as dawn sleepily approached. He kept one eye on Raoul, who in turn seemed to be keeping one eye on him. The boy's rapier rested unthreateningly on his knee, but in its stillness possessed a quiet potential that Raoul was clearly not afraid to fill. The sword was down but ready to strike. Erik repressed a smirk. Of course he was not trusted. Erik did not entirely trust the man who had helped him, either. It might have all been a set up, with the boy leading a stunning performance for both himself and Christine. He had no choice, now, but to follow whatever fate Raoul led him to.

It had been the boy, as irony would have it, that pulled him out of the darkness, and that was all he had left to trust. He had slit a throat, and almost plunged a sword into Raoul's chest all in one night. Erik inhaled deeply. Maybe he was mad, this animal even his own mother took him to be. He wondered what Raoul thought of, as he stared blankly around the black curtain, into the graying morning. It was still too dark for dawn.

The coach halted, and Raoul stirred, blinking rapidly as sleep had begun to creep over him. He shook his head, and moved doggedly for the door.

"Say nothing, stay here," he ordered, and Erik felt fear grip him. It was an involuntary rush of instinct to flee, and he had to close his eyes and regulated his breathing to keep composure. Quiet voices murmured outside, and the door opened. Erik briefly saw a barrel of a rifle slip through the opening, but blinked it away. It was only Raoul, who grimly peered back into the coach.

"Come," he said, and extended an arm for Erik to grip as he stepped out of the coach. Erik frowned, questioningly. "We're all gentlemen here, aren't we?" he said, and Erik immediately seized the man's arm, and moved out of the coach. Christine stood there, a red cloak about her delicate shoulders, and a white dress beneath. For a moment, Erik could not think why she was staring on in horror, and then sense flooded back. He quickly covered his face with a hand, and for all the blood left in his body wished he was hidden again. But Christine wasn't looking at his face. She touched, with her bare, white hands, first his ribs, and then his chest where he had been battered with a chain. In solemn horror she traced the bruises with the pads of her fingertips, and reached up to his face. She removed his hand, and touched his temple. Erik flinched.

"What have they done to you?" she murmured, searching his bruised, hollow face. Erik's breath was caught in his throat. He could not have found the answer even if he had wanted to find it.


	13. Holding Back the Fool

**Author's Note:** Other than torturing Erik, this was the hardest chapter to write. I feel for all these characters and I feel like I'm just playing with them. Whahuh! The grief! As you might have guessed, this is not the end. There's more to come, even as we approach the end. I've said that so much already, I know, but after 13 there are only 3 vignettes left. I hope it's to everyone's satisfaction. Thank you, as always, for your lovely support!

-

**XIII : Holding Back the Fool**

"You're here because of me."

It seemed to always be her presence that brought Erik to silence. Even now, in the temporary safety of the Opera's shadow, when he could have said anything he wanted to, Erik could not find the courage to speak. With Raoul by the couch, they stood alone in the quiet, side by side, and numbly watched the empty streets. In a matter of hours, Paris would awaken again, and there would be questions, and investigations, and accusations, but not until sunrise. Now, in this darkness, they were sheltered. Christine closed her eyes, tearless, and breathed in the starless morning. "I have never known pain like this," she said. "Not since the day my father died."

She inclined her head to him, thoughtfully, and her dark hair whipped away from her face, the white layers of her skirts rustling impatiently. Christine was numb, again, but her regard for Erik was that of a love too beaten, and too bare for passion. Once, she had a flame inside of her, a kindled innocence and grace he had fallen to love. The flame was quenched, now, with a silent maturity that lingered about her with every blink, and every movement of her body.

"Won't you speak?" She tried, whispered, dry as leaves. "There is no time left."

Erik's body ached, and despite the coat placed awkwardly about his shoulders, he was the colder than ever. His blood was no longer warm, but wet, and thick, weighing his once white shirt down around his frame. His leg felt useless and prickled with poor circulation, but he remained standing. Christine subtly moved closer to him, her little feet taking tiny soundless steps closer, until she was fronting him. She said nothing more, only watched his averted expression as it danced over everything in Paris but her. He looked frightening beside her, ferocious sharp features, a twisted face, and a body marred with discolor, but he could not bring himself to face her.

Christine was hushed with realization, that he could not be forced to speak, and she pitied him, and loved him, so she refrained from doing so. His eyes still tarried from her, and with a childish fear and hesitation she reached out, very slowly, and touched his side. He quailed his ribs from her touch, only a moment, before he ducked his head and let Christine draw closer to him, wordlessly. With every movement she made to be nearer to him he held his breath longer, tensing, and screwing his eyes shut as she slipped her thin arms around his torso. He didn't touch her, or even look when she lowered her head to ease on his chest. Christine held him, and the action was one of the most tender any human being had ever bestowed on his distorted shape.

Erik could not bring himself to touch her. Not without a mask, not like this.

There were no words, no mystery remained between them. No more hiding. His twisted face was bare again, and still she held him in her arms, his dark blood soaking into the front of her white dress. He wanted to pull away, apologize, but the silence was heavy, and from the inside something tore at him to get out. His arms rose around her, to touch her, but he couldn't find the courage. The top of her head was just under his chin, her soft curls brushing his face. Even when she could not have been closer to him, with her cheek against his chest and his blood and warmth seeping into her, he felt more alone than he ever had. Even now she was something he could never truly have, untouchable even as she reached out to him. Erik broke inside, and on the out he broke down to tears. He choked a sob, and in response the arms around him only tightened. She rocked with him, and his heavy quiet sobs that wholly overcame him. Erik cried, and he didn't know what else to do besides feebly reach up, and cover half his face with a bloodied hand.

Christine watched him solemnly, her pale features breaking with pity. He covered his deformity, and he cried, lost for words. He was grateful for the emptiness of the city, grateful for the bit of privacy, to be allowed to be apart in his loneliness. She palmed his cheek, slipping her fingers beneath the shield of his hand, and taking the other side of his face even as he dipped his head to hide from her. Christine tried to whisper softly to him, her own tears weighing down her voice, but he would not hear it. He tried to turn away.

"Don't," she breathed, shaking her head. "Don't cry." Christine tenderly brushed his disheveled pieces dark hair away from his brow.

Erik stayed his tears a moment, regaining ragged composure, and took a deep breath. "I wish," he began, voice thick with tears, and breached to staggered breaths. "I wish I could change for you," he said, and Christine's face contorted with sympathy. Erik inhaled deeply again, and made to cradle the little fingers on his cheek. "I only wish I didn't have this face, or this – this body, and this soul, I hate it, Christine," Erik finally sobbed, almost more of a hollow growl from the pit of his inside.

Without letting him go she stood on the tips of her toes, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Erik shuddered a gasp, and Christine kissed him hard, on the mouth with both of her hands cupping the line of his jaw and touching the side of his face.

Breathing out heavy wisps of steam, Christine pulled away, and let his face go, covering the hands on her waist. They were warm, and though shaking, strong. "You don't see what I see," her voice cracked, and reached to pet away one of the tear streaks down his face. "That's why you hate it."

Some distance away, Raoul watched, idly by the coach. He tried not to, and dropped his eyes in childish shame. He could not hear what it was they murmured in the shelter of the grand Opera House, and part of him didn't want to know. Part of him needed to know. What he felt, as he caught a cornered glimpse of Christine kissing the other man, could not be deemed as shallow jealousy. It was something worse: fear. From the first moment Christine had looked on him with vacant, innocent joy, and whispered her secret of the Angel of Music in the hallow of a candle lit room, a voice within told him he had lost before he began.

Since this man's reign of sickened terror and gray morals, Christine ran to him, and of course he loved her, and consoled her, and protected her. He had swore that he would, before he even knew what it might mean.

It had come to this. Loving her by releasing her, protecting her from her own conscience. It was the price Raoul paid for his love, and he did not pay it gladly, but he accepted it. He would live with it. Erik may have been cast from society, but Raoul knew he had still been bested, and that when compared to such a genius he was no match. Erik had in him a power Raoul, with all his titles, his handsome face, his character, could never best.

He balefully adjusted his collar, and waited for what would come. The streets should have been empty, but he heard a horse approaching. The steps were uneven. The driver, perhaps? No, his loyal chauffer had retired for the night. With a reluctance he closed his coat, and quickly crossed to where Christine spoke quietly with the Phantom.

"Forgive me," he said, breathless in the cold. He glanced over his shoulder. "A horseman, I think, is approaching. It might be best if –" Raoul's hand instinctively shot to his hip and wrapped around his rapier when Erik violently shoved Christine to the street, and before he could strike out at the other man several gunshots rang out over his head, shattering the silence. They whirled their attention to the rider – a thin, disheveled man on an old nag.

Maurice.

"You can stand," he said, almost giddy with nervous excitement. "I told him you were too strong to die. He laughed at me," the smile faded to a white stare, and he held a revolver in his shaking hand as he dismounted sloppily. Raoul stood in front of Christine, protectively, but Maurice had only eyes for the Phantom. He fired again, into the air, and distant voices rose in response. "They'll not be long now," he whispered.


	14. Anvil Hands

**Author's Note: **Another hard one to write. Have fun with this, I'm off to read Chicken Soup for the Tortured Soul. Sheesh.

-

**XIV : Anvil Hands**

"Go," Erik breathed to Christine, taking a bold stride forward and completely ignoring the falter of his step. He seemed almost taller now, brimming with audacity absent only moments before, and powerful as he approached the little man with the gun. Maurice's excitement was shaky, and warily did his courage waver as he held the gun level with the Phantom's chest, and seemed incapable of pulling the trigger again. "Let me handle him," The Phantom's voice changed, almost more to the monster than the man. He said over his shoulder, without looking at Raoul, "Don't stay, and witness this."

"Monsieur," Raoul watched Maurice carefully, an arm shielding Christine in vain. "I think it is too late for any sort of exit, graceful or otherwise." He stepped up, almost beside Erik with body language far more willing to reason, and reached out a hand, palm to the sky as a signal of peace. "Come now," he said. "We are all sensible people here. Put down your weapon. Let the law deal with whatever conflict you and this man have had."

"I'll let the people," Maurice barked, foaming. He waved the gun at Erik, who was unfazed by the sight. "Do you hear them? They're on their way, and they won't be near as forgiving as _you_," he threw the comment casually at Raoul, but in the same instance did a double take, and stared at the young man incredulously, and irrational. With the back of his hand he wiped the dribble from his chin. "He killed Thomas," Maurice said softly. "You should have seen it. He ripped his throat apart when he should not have been able to even think of his own name. You want him alive?" The gun turned to Raoul. "He is a _monster_."

Raoul's hands slowly raised to the level of his eyes. "Be reasonable," he bit out. "You do not want to kill anyone, Monsieur."

Erik's mind was elsewhere. His initial nerve had been a front; without their big protectors like Thomas, Maurice's kind were nothing and easy to frighten down into their rightful place, but so far the little man seemed far too disoriented to think clearly. The voices were getting closer, like the licking of flames at his flight instincts, and Erik knew the people would hang him for certain if they saw him this time. He refused to face the justice of the people, to let them take his life on the false beds of bible-cushioned conscience. Erik would have preferred to take his own life, then fall into their hands again.

Briefly he scanned the surrounding area for an out – Maurice had come from around the corner, behind the Opera Populaire. Aside from the three hidden entrances behind Maurice's back, there was only open city, and no place to hide. A few meters, a quick dash perhaps, and Erik could slip into the darkness of his tunnels and disappear forever.

Erik glanced at the Vicomte beside him, and swore softly. Surely Maurice lacked the grit to shoot a man of title, and a lady. Especially with a number of people tromping on their way to investigate, Maurice would have every element churning against him if he harmed one of them. He would not shoot Christine, would not dare, and so it became one of Erik's lesser concerns. He had to make it past the revolver, and the speed of a bullet.

He would have to make a rush, despite the injuries he bore, and if he should fail it would mean his life.

Raoul was still murmuring pleas of reason to the disgruntled cart-thief, and Erik kept one eye on them, and one of the freedom that lay beyond Maurice and his weapon. Such an ironic term for his aim, freedom. Erik knew as long as he was forced to hide he would never know freedom, but solitude, even in his own impenetrable darkness, was a better place to be than in the midst of unreasonable hate.

He calculated his exit. He would have to move swiftly past Maurice, and if by chance he avoided the bullet he would round the corner, vanish into an unrecognizable door in the back wall, climb down the West tunnel, and drop into the safety of a somber, empty Opera House. When time allowed, and all rumors of the Phantom of the Opera died, he would perhaps leave his prison. He would not be able to take Christine with him, and would be alone in his escape.

He closed his eyes, hard, and readied himself. It seemed like all the pain he had endured over the last five hours made a sudden comeback, and his bruises bore into him, his wrappings shifted against the abrasions. His breath rattled in his chest. Erik drew in a slow breath, and looked back past Raoul, and to Christine. Her eyes were fixed wide and terrified on Maurice, but when she felt his gaze on her she returned it.

It was only a moment, perhaps a half second of time that moved between them, but undeniable comprehension dawned on Christine's face. She nodded, ever so slightly, and mouthed a silent 'goodbye' with trembling lips. Erik closed his eyes and turned away. Cutting off Raoul in mid-sentence, with a burst of strength and not a second thought he threw himself into the ruthless stride of a desperate run. With a cry of terror Maurice fired, but the only pain Erik felt was the agony of his straining, battered muscles burn like fire from his feet to the back of his scalp. It was a tearing pain, but he kept going, and with a falter, a new pain, he vanished into the darkness.

Christine screamed, a sorrowful, afflicted breaking of her voice as she watched him fall behind the corner. Maurice shakily pointed the weapon at her when she tried to follow, and she stayed her feet, turning on him with wretched tears.

"You shot him," she heaved, hardly able to form words. "You shot him – because he was something evil? Without a soul?" Maurice stared at her, jolted with his own fear, white faced and shaking. Christine took another step toward him, and was once again at bay by the end of his revolver. "Didn't you see!" she cried. "How could something so soulless shed tears like he did!" He stared at her. "Answer me!"

She flattened a hand to her breast in a feeble attempt to calm her pounding heart, it felt like it would explode inside her, as she waited for Maurice to say something, do something. He shook his head, numbly, and Christine followed his eyes. His gazed traveled past her face, staring fixedly on something behind her. Irritated, Christine turned sharp, and Raoul frowned at her, mutely. He glanced down, to where his hand had instinctively flown to his torso.

Christine's inside froze over, and something within her sank despairingly. Raoul pulled his hand away, and fresh blood stained his bare fingers.


	15. The Language of Tragedy

**Author's Note**: Well, for starter's I'd like to say I'm grateful I didn't get any "OMG you shot Erik!" or "YES, now Raoul is DEAD", because that would have broken my heart. Alas, Raoul has been shot. Where? Torso. Why? Erik charged toward Maurice - who is not a trained Russian assassin, who is just a cart-thief trying to make a buck, and who is so freaked out at this point he would miss if he aimed for Moby Dick - and Maurice shot. Raoul was standing very close beside Erik at the time. So, that cleared up? So yes, Raoul is shot, bleeding, probably gonna die, Erik escaped, and Christine is crying yet again while the question burns hot in the mind of the readers – _will this fanfic ever end?_

Oh, and I'm a writer, I can't count. I made a reference to there only being 16 vignettes and an epilogue. There's actually 17. I'm silly. Whoops! Thanks, all:D

-

**XV : The Language of Tragedy**

It did not at first seem to truly dawn on him that he had been shot, until he tried to take a step back and stumbled, sinking shakily to the cobblestones with his bloody fingers still outstretched before his eyes. Christine was there to catch him before he fell back, but she was not strong enough to keep him supported. Together they lowered down to the street, Raoul's brow creased and lips parted.

Christine fumbled with his coat, and when she was able to lever her fingers between the buttons she ripped it open to his white undershirt, where blood seeped dark the side, and up to the breast. "Oh God," she breathed, shallowly, and ignored Maurice behind her. The little man stood in awe, wide eyes laced with red. Christine's thoughts muddled together, and in a trembling panic she found the courage to press her naked palm to the source of the blood. Raoul gasped, and his face drained of color.

Holding her breath to regain composure, she held her other hand tightly over the wound, and dark red spilled over her unsteady fingers. She realized she did not know what to do, or how to help Raoul, as he bled through her grasp. He only watched her, face drawn and tightened in pain, and his head halfway lifted off the road. Maurice approached them, standing over, and while still holding the gun, he looked almost petrified with fear. Slowly, it seemed, he came to realize the magnitude of his crime.

"God," Christine mouthed, again, not so much an aimless word as a cry for help, as Raoul arched his back against the street, writhing as if the pain was crawling beneath his skin to tear him to pieces. Helplessly she tried to steady him, cupping his perspiring forehead with her cool palm, but he only gave a strangled half-cry, and she recoiled her hand in horror. Her fingers left red prints on his temple. "Raoul," she tried. "Hold still - keep still," Christine gently eased his shoulder back down, hardly able to keep the panic out of her touch. Her throat ached with the effort of composure. "Please, Raoul, please... can you hear me?"

Over her, Maurice snapped his arms straight again, gripping the gun with both hands and standing back. "Get away from him!" he snarled, and Christine ignored him. "Girl, get away"!

Awareness forced its way back into Raoul's senses at the sound of the other man's voice, and he fought for his breath, wheezing painfully as he lifted his head off the street and shuddered with effort, propping himself halfway on one elbow. Determination blazed steadfast in his hard eyes. "Christine," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Get out of here," Raoul spoke under his breath, so as not to stir Maurice to further action. "Run," he said, and she only stared at him, tears trailing down her face. "Run, Christine, find someone!"

Christine's eyes were vacant with distress. She shook her head, and leaned her weight to apply more pressure to the wound. Feebly Raoul pushed her away, and her hands extricated from the bloody shirt when she fell back. "Christine, he will kill you, leave me," the young man was channeling all his strength into a shout, as it slowly departed. "You have to!"

She raised bloody hands to cover her mouth, and bit her lip, shaking her head harder. "I can't," she choked, pitifully. "I can't do what you're asking me to do. I can save you," Christine stammered, and behind her Maurice wearily checked behind his shoulder. Nothing, yet, but the voices were fast approaching. "Wait a little longer, I can save you, I know I can."

"You can't," when she tried to tend to his warm, wet side again he shoved her away. "You have to run, now, don't wait any longer !"

"Enough of this," Maurice grunted, and with a gnarled hand he fisted the back of Christine's cloak and yanked her away from Raoul. The Vicomte stared up at him, his whole body shaking in convulsions of effort to keep himself propped up. "I never intended this," Maurice said, as he aligned the barrel to Raoul's forehead. "I'm sorry."

"Don't touch her," Raoul hissed, like a cornered fox at the end of a hunt. "Christine, run," he snapped one last time, but rather than obey Christine heaved herself back up, in one last effort to protect him. She crawled over Raoul, covering his body with hers, the length of her red cloak pooling protectively around them. "Christine," She only remained a moment before Maurice gripped her arm beneath the arm and hauled her off again, throwing her with unexpected strength to the curb. Her wrist and elbow scraped painfully against it.

"Stay back," Maurice warned, and with his free hand he twisted his fingers into Raoul's collar, jerking him off the street and pressing the barrel into the eggshell-thin bone of his temple. Raoul did not look away, or blink. His chest rose and fell in violent, heavy breaths as his side was bent agonizingly over his gaping wound. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he gasped, once as the stabbing pain refused to subside. It brought on a sickening wave of exhaustion.

"You," he growled, his voice a stranger to his ears. "will hang for this."

"Will I?" Maurice replied, testily. For the first time all morning, his hands did not shake around the weapon. "So many murders go unpunished these days."

"Monsieur," Christine whispered, ghostly, sprawled out on the cobblestones with her fingers bloody, still, and held weakly to her face. "Monsieur... please don't," she said. "Please, please don't."

"Christine, go!" Raoul shouted, one last time, and screwed his eyes shut when Christine screamed in grievous, bloody horror, waiting with a terror unlike any he had ever felt for the final flash of pain, and then precious blackness. Instead he fell back, hard, onto the street and struck his skull against the stones. A sharp pain shot through his neck and to the base of his spine, and in dark he waited for the final blow. A sound of displaced air, a sickening dull pop as Christine's scream died. In the heavy pause of silence she murmured a name. He opened his eyes, and when he looked up Maurice's eyes were vacant, and his head was limp between the bare hands of the Phantom. Erik stumbled back, and threw the little man's body to the curb beside Christine. She only stared at him in awe.

Raoul exhaled, hard, and lolled his head back in sweet relief as every nerve in his body surrendered to painlessness. With a single, hard twist of the head, Erik had broken Maurice's neck, and ultimately saved their lives. Christine followed Erik with her eyes, as she shakily returned to Raoul, gently lifting him off of the street to lean against her front. She let his head drop to rest against the crook of her shoulder, and smoothed his damp hair from his brow.

Voices still hovered distantly, too close now, and Erik wearily glanced over his shoulder with a grimace. Retreat was inevitable.

Raoul caught his breath, and his own hand pressed into his bleeding side. He had shouted himself hoarse, and with his flare of instinct dying, his strength began to depart. "You came back," he said, dryly, and earned an arch of Erik's dark brow. His face was shadowed in the half-light of the dim morning. Raoul narrowed his eyes against the glow of the sunrise. A long night drew to an end. "Foolish of you."

Erik stared quietly at Christine's white face as she cradled Raoul's to her bosom, and regarded him mournfully. With a simple inclination of his dark head, he nodded to Raoul, slowly. "Evidently," he replied, and without another word he started off past them, gingerly in departure. He favored his leg this time, stooping to keep minimal support dependent on it. Christine watched him go, and realized she could not rise from the street, not when Raoul needed her. His blood was hot on her thighs, and if help did not soon arrive, Raoul would die. She held onto him with both arms, and craned her neck to look back at Erik.

He had killed for her, one last time, when she knew in her heart he was tired of washing blood off his hands. He fought for her, killed for her, and gave it to her place to refuse, because he loved her. Despite the state of his shadowed break of morning, Erik carried himself well, and retreated with a quiet dignity. Christine closed her eyes, and drew in a long breath as she pulled Raoul closer. She turned, and called out to the Phantom. By Raoul's forgotten coach, Erik glanced warily back at her.

"You are loved," Christine said softly, hushed. Erik's brows contorted ever so slightly in an unreadable expression, and his unsymmetrical gaze drifted past them to the approaching crowd. Christine brushed her hair back from her face with blood-slicked fingers. "Remember you are loved."

Erik kept his eyes on her for a long while, ghosts of indecision still whispering inside him. He coughed, hoarsely, an aching reminder of what pain was still to come, and without further adieu closed the coach door. "Your Vicomte," he said, wryly. "Give him my apologies for his carriage." With a hard slap to the hinds of the first horse, the animal screeched, and both barreled off into the gray morning. The further disturbance rose voices again, and Erik repressed a smirk. He bowed his head politely at Christine, and with a furtive agility one so beaten should not have been able to execute, Erik soundlessly disappeared into the darkness of the Opera Populaire's shadow.

Minutes passed, and the crowd descended on them, but Christine only strained her gaze far along the looming tower-like walls, searching for the dark figure, who, in the end, had been her salvation. He was gone, and with him left the night. Morning rose apathetically over them, a fine mist collecting with the warmth of the sun as it settled in the streets.

"Mamselle," an older man with a thick mustache said breathlessly, falling before her as a few other men investigated Maurice's body. His crinkled eyes searched for evidence, some sort of story around them to answer his questions. "What happened here, Mamselle?" Christine only blinked slowly, still watching the stars fade over the rooftop. They questioned her, but she could not focus long enough to answer them.

When her thoughts returned to the present, Raoul had gone slack in her arms.


	16. An Echo Unheard

**Author's Note:** Not a whole bunch to say about this one. Not the end. Arnoux's goodbye, really. Hopefully the end will leave everyone with an arched brow. I'm wondering if it will come as a surprise. Thank you, all, for your reviews!

-

**XVI : An Echo (Unheard) **

Quiet shame blanketed the Opera House, in the clear of a Paris afternoon. Arnoux felt it tangible around him, as he blew smoke from his cigarette into the silent witness of the air. His wife hated how he smoked, which was why he stopped years ago, but now the chippering voice of pretty little Marie was not plaguing his thoughts. Even she was silent when he left that morning.

Arnoux finished it, and leaned down to smother it on the heel of his shoe. He took a deep breath, and made his way up the steps, inside. As he expected, the Opera Populaire was emptying. A few nondescript cases and bags waited by the exit, and by the stairs Christine Daae was quietly arranging a few last minute items in her carpet bag - parting gifts, perhaps. Pink stained her eyes, with light traces of old tears. Meg Giry, daughter of the ballet instructor, stood behind her in quiet comfort. Thin white arms were enveloped around Christine tenderly from behind, with the gold head resting in the space between Christine's shoulders. The last goodbyes of a friend were done best in the comfort of silence.

Madame Giry's even gaze flicked to his, and with a little nod she steadily approached him, hands folded properly at her waist with her rope of nut-brown hair dangling behind the curve of her back. Arnoux turned to meet her, and politely removed his hat. She stopped before him, and lifted her head, painted eyes regarding him expressionlessly, as always.

"Is there something I can do for you, Inspector?"

Arnoux drew in a sharp breath, and nodded over to Christine. "How is she, Madame Giry?"

Madame Giry glanced over her shoulder, and her hard face softened with affection at the sight of her daughter's arms around the dark-haired girl. When she turned back to the inspector, her own eyes were glistening. "Strong, Monsieur. Very strong." she looked away. "She loved him, dearly." Distant thoughts were apparent on the pale face of the ballet instructor, and she excused herself with nothing more than an inclination of her head, moving silently back to her daughter. Arnoux watched her whisper something in Meg Giry's ear, and the girl glanced from him, to Christine.

Mlle. Daae hesitated when she saw him. She said something to Madame Giry, and brushed her cheeks off with gloved fingers, and swept her hair back from her pale face. Nearing the inspector, there was no sign of the shaking girl he had met almost three weeks ago, tearful and at the end of her world. She was a young woman, now, and knew exactly where she seemed to be going.

"Mamselle," he began. "I am told you are leaving Paris with Giry and her daughter."

"No, Monsieur," she said, softly. "I leave in only a few minutes. I stayed to say my farewells."

Arnoux shook his head apologetically. "Forgive my intrusion," he said. "I came only to tell you what I know so far, to hopefully put you at ease. I will not be long," he turned his hat over the ball of his fist, once, twice, and searched for the words. He usually could pull them out of the thin air when speaking to a witness, but with Christine Daae they seemed trapped in an idle spell, somewhere in the back of his mind. "No sign, no word... no clues, as to where the assailant might have fled. The Vicomte's coach," Christine turned her head, and blinked away a new set of tears, hard. Arnoux tried to continue. "It was found last night, empty. If by chance he was even inside it when it took off, he could be anywhere he wanted at this moment."

Christine touched the back of her hand to her cheek, and regarded him quietly a moment. Her face was a melancholy portrait. "Will you keep searching?"

"Two are dead, now," he answered, grave and indirect. He caught the aversion of her dark eyes, and something of suspicion stirred inside him. Whether still afflicted with the grief of the recent events, or knowing something she would never let him know, Arnoux could not decide. She was innocence, and awareness. "One of the men who initially took the coach for the bounty was found by the chapel. His throat was cut. Savagely. We were hoping we might find Maurice Laurec's partner alive. He was the only soul in the world who might have been able to tell us what happened, and he is dead."

Christine nodded, slowly, and Arnoux hesitantly reached out to touch the top of her arm. "I am sorry. I always feel as if I should have been there, to stop it. To do anything," Christine covered his hand with hers, but said nothing. "I came too late, Mamselle Daae. Please accept my condolences."

"It was not your fault," was all she said in reply. Arnoux removed his hand, and brought it back to his hat. The afternoon was turning long, and dusk was only an hour or so away. There was never enough time in a day, it seemed.

"On all accounts," he said. "The Phantom of the Opera is dead. He could not have made it far with the blood that he lost. We are still looking, but I do not think the search will long continue. I came wondering if I might question you further." As expected, panic, ever so slight, flickered across Christine's eyes, and color sprang quickly into her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but Arnoux held up a hand, and shook his head. "I think, perhaps, you have been through enough. It will have to remain a mystery, this Phantom of the Opera. Never fully explained. Should give the novelists plenty to scribble away at, however."

Christine only stared at him, half in confusion, half in what almost could pass for warm delight. Arnoux touched her arm again, gently.

"For your fiancé, I am truly sorry," he murmured. "I wish you the very best."

"And you," Christine offered a small smile. "Goodbye, Inspector."

_Goodbye indeed_, he thought, as he followed the sight of Christine lead her driver out into the street, with the very last of her baggage. Meg stood by the steps, and waved with her little hand in the air, fingers idle and lingering thin as the air. _Something tells me I have seen the last of Christine Daae. She will leave this time and place behind, and search for meaning elsewhere. I daresay she will find it, with her youth, now that she has seen the world, and the hideous side of its face_. Arnoux reached into the deep of his coat pocket, and removed another cigarette. He turned it over in his fingers for sometime, deciding whether or not it was worth a smoke. It was a long walk home, and by the time he reached the front door the smell of it would be out of his clothing. Marie would never know. No one would, except strange faces of passerbys he would never see again. Arnoux turned at the large double doors, and took his last look of the Opera Populaire. In the mingled chill of cold and sunlight, it stood as a quiet monument for something none would remember.

From what little he saw of the Phantom of the Opera - Erik - he had spoken to a man of class, finery, and intelligence. Erik was all he did not see himself as, and that was a man among men. _But he will not be remembered as a man. Not now, with such power to vanish into a night where none will follow. He is not fearless. From what I've seen, he has all the characteristics of a man and more. Not just a heart, bones, blood, a face, but a soul. All men have souls, but Erik's loved nothing of himself, only of a thing he could never have. If in only two minutes of interaction such a man is brought to light, then he is something to be remembered. Not now. Erik will be remembered by those who condemned him as only a ghost, and thus heads will rest easy on their pillows tonight. Sleep will not be denied to those who least deserve its comfort_.

As Arnoux descended the steps he passed Christine, standing alone at their top, her red cloak wrapped around her thin frame and whipping at her ankles to escape. Her face was unreadable, and protected by her dark coiled hair. _And goodbye to you, Mamselle Daae_, he only thought as he left her in his stead. _May you sleep the more peaceful of us all. Adieu._

He stepped out into the Paris streets, among the passing masses, and started the long journey home. Marie would be waiting for him when he returned.


	17. To Forgive

**XVII : To Forgive**

It had been there when she first stepped into the coach, idle and set on the seat beside her, raised from the black velvet: the spun bell of a red rose. With little curiosity she picked it up, and kept it on her lap with her purse. Implying she thought nothing of the rose would be untrue, even as she waited with the nurse at the door of Raoul's private room in the top floor of the hospital. When the suite was opened to her, she did not conceal it, or tuck it beneath her cloak, but let it stay between her fingers as she approached the young man's bed. It was positioned by the window and overlooked the city, but Raoul had his head turned from the sight, and his eyes rested.

He seemed much better. Color had returned to his face, and while he was still hounded down with bandages about his torso, and doctors at his side day and night, the young man did not appear to be worsening in condition. Not wanting to disturb him, she soundlessly carried herself across the wide room, and gingerly lowered into the cushioned seat beside his bed. Immediately he drew in a breath, and blue eyes clouded with sleep tried to focus on her.

"Christine," he began, groggily, and when he tried to rise she laid a bare hand on his shoulder. He obediently settled back into the bed, and covered his face with a hand. "You don't have to be here, you know," he murmured, and dropped his arm beside him, staring up at the ceiling.

"I love being here," she replied, kissing the tips of her fingers and reaching over to stroke his hair from his forehead. "It's the least I can do." Raoul leaned his cheek into her palm, and said nothing. Christine pulled back into her chair, and gestured to the flowers and wrapped gifts around him, smiling with a good grace. "Everyone in Paris seems to be encouraging your recovery. Who brought all of this?"

"Who didn't?" he said, wryly, reaching to the other side of the bed to aimlessly pluck at one of the bouquets, watching a few petals fall and quickly losing interest. He turned back to her, and raised pale brows without smiling. "What have you got there?"

Christine passed him the parcel she had been holding. "From Meg," she said, and he held it between his hands with childish curiosity. In her lap was a smaller box, and she held it out to him. "From me. Pretty things to speed up your recovery."

Raoul's smile turned into a grin when he moved to accept her gift, but when his eyes landed on the rose still placed between the knuckles of her fore and middle fingers he recoiled, in what might have been fear, if one could convince Christine that Raoul feared anything. "From him," he breathed, eyes wide, and Christine only nodded. She took the rose back, and turned it over several times in her hands, regarding the single flower somberly, and letting her fingertip run over the rough surface of a familiar jewel encrusted ring. A smile, slow and content, touched her pink lips, and as Raoul watched this his initial fear fell to a doubtful wonder. Despite his condition, he pulled himself up to sit against the headboard, and absently touched his side where only clean white bandage replaced the blood.

Christine lovingly removed the ring from around the ribbon, and slid it down the stem. She set it on her finger, and Raoul arched a brow.

"Are you afraid?" he asked quietly, and Christine's delicate features contorted into a thoughtful frown. She shook her head, once.

"I don't think so," she murmured. "I chose you, he knows as much," Christine closed her eyes, hard, and said through the fingers she held over her mouth, "And he loves me, still."

Raoul was quiet a moment, and though bewildered with confusion, he ventured, "Is he even alive, Christine? The Inspector says he vanished without a trace." Christine looked at him, as ignorant as he, and gave a little shrug. Her hair fell about her face, and she inhaled deeply.

"I think so," Christine fingered the petals, tracing the velvet spiral. "I think he's still out there. Planning, creating, composing," she breathed. "Something wonderful." Dropping his gaze, and bringing hers entirely back to the rose, she let it subtly brush against her cheek. How sweet it smelled, even among the plethora of bouquets that surrounded them both. Raoul felt the dull ache in his side return, almost as a reminder, and his fingers scraped the soft cotton that collared his ribs. He turned, slightly, and extended a hand to cover hers that held the rose, looking earnestly into her face.

"I told you," he said, though his words bore a certain dread. "You don't have to be here."

"I love being here," she repeated, setting the rose in her lap and taking his hand in hers. "I do."

"How can you?" he asked her, almost fiercely as he pulled himself up higher in the bed, his square shoulders tensed and his face drawn. The smile left Christine. Raoul exhaled, hard through his nose. "You should have seen him, Christine, the way I did. When I found him. He was barely alive. I don't... know what they did to him, but he had been beaten. Stabbed," Raoul averted his eyes to some distant point at the foot of his bed, and ran his hands wearily through his hair. "Tortured. They tortured him," he said the words as a horrible confession as they passed his dry lips. "He could hardly speak, he was senseless. And watching him still come to his feet, even as he fell, I... " Raoul's brow creased, and his frown was hard, his eyes closed. "He fell, and somehow the man found it within himself to get back up." He shook his head. "I was shot, once. A little ball of metal that surgery did not even have to remove, and I could not lift myself off of the street to save the woman I love." Raoul's head leaned back, to rest against the board. "I couldn't even find the strength the live."

Christine leaned over the bed, wary of his injury, and palmed his cheek to turn his head to face her. She raised her brows, pointedly. "But you did," she said. "And you will, Raoul."

It would be hours until Raoul was finally given permission by his doctors to depart the hospital. Christine stayed with him until then, sometimes reading to him, other times enjoying a comfortable silence as she let her Vicomte rest. In the dark hours of the earliest morning, Christine kept her book open, and the rose remained safe on her lap, propped contently against her thigh. One of her hands always remained on Raoul's forearm, tracing invisible circles as hours flew by like lifetimes, and he slept the night away. Christine turned the page. She was content to let the sun rise when it was good and ready.

-

**Post Notes: **I put this at the end, so as not to give anything away. Not like it wasn't obvious, but hey. The epilogue is on it's way, I promise. I know a lot of you wanted Erik and Christine to have a happily ever after, but don't worry, Raoul and Christine are settling with a contently-ever-after. I know it did not go the way a lot of my readers wanted, but I thank you all for your support anyway. This has been a blast to write.


	18. Epilogue : The Silence of the World

**Author's Note: **Here she is, the end of **Gods and Their Creations**. I would like to thank everyone who read it, and commented with encouragement. I had a real blast writing this, and I'm greatly considering a sequel, focusing on Erik. **Special Thanks** to Kit, my hetero lifemate, for beta-ing this for me. And here's http:img. a while back. Yay, Kit!

**Rue Marie**, I think you might appreciate the implications in this the most. : D

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**Epilogue : The Silence of the World**

Meg danced.

Her leg rose in a graceful arc, and with no sound, save the gentle tide of air, she made her way across the dark of an empty stage. Skirts like frozen, dusted snow rustled a melancholy tune, and her pink ribbon below her bust rippled in the whirlpool she stirred around her. Candle light made her the center of the world she would be leaving behind, and it caught in her gold strands of hair that whipped gently about her neck, again and again.

"Marguerite," Madame Giry walked briskly past the stage, cane and carpet bag in both white-knuckled hands. "Come, my dear. Enough dancing, it is late."

With little attention to her mother, Meg swept to the floor, and back up again, like the rise and fall of the soundless February wind outside the Opera Populaire. Her thoughts returned to Christine. Meg hoped for Christine, and her handsome, loving fiancé. With every twirl she prayed for the happiness of her sister. Sweet, little Christine. She had changed so much since then, into a strong, beautiful young woman. Meg wondered if she were ever to be as strong as Christine Daae.

"Marguerite Giry!" The ballet instructor passed again, her long rope of a braid lightly slapping the slope of her lower back. "Off of that stage!"

Meg distantly heard her mother, but she knew they were not leaving yet. So many things remained unfinished, so many arrangements yet to be settled, and her heart was only ever in place when she danced. Her arms wound above her pale head, and she turned her face up to the rafters. In the dim light, as she spun round and round, Meg saw a flash of movement, and the sound of creaking wood cracked her silence. Her steps faltered, and she stammered to a still, straining to see up into the darkness. One of the stagehands, perhaps. She dismissed the thought entirely.

Meg twirled, once. She picked up her light body and twirled again, and again. She twirled over, and over, each faster and more satisfying than the last, each taking her farther and farther with every graceful circle of light and movement she created. Meg twirled hard, and fast, and pushed herself without stopping. She twirled, and twirled, twirled, twirled, twirled, and with no warning her hip crashed into an empty table. It clamored to the floor, and bumped the wall beside it. Meg's heart pounded, and her warm fingers grazed her chest as she fought for composure.

Past the curtain, her mother barked her name and a warning, but she was too startled to care. Meg quickly gathered the table back onto its legs, and dusted it off. She glanced around, to see if anyone else might have witnessed her falter, but there was no one. She breathed out quietly with relief, and decided to heed her mother's call. Meg turned, and a shallow gasp scoured her throat and stayed there. She took several shaking steps back, but did not scream at what she saw.

A face, shrouded in shadow, stared grimly at her. White, a mask she knew all too well, rested on its side. There was something different about this figure, and he leaned forward, only allowing the dimmest of silver light to touch him.

"You," she breathed, and though marred with healing bruises, the handsome face parted into a devious smile, set smugly on almost hawk-like features. The man was dressed in fine black, and as she drew in this fascinating sight she even caught a glimpse of a satin waist coat. Despite the human appearance, Meg felt about her an inhuman presence, and realized it was her own fear. The Phantom of the Opera was silent, and the longer he lingered the more frightening he seemed. Meg took another quiet step back, as his eyes passed over her, judgmental of a little ballet rat.

He nodded to the stage, where the lights shined brighter, with only a single inclination of the dark head. "Perhaps you should go," he murmured, in a voice Meg swore only she could hear, it was so invisible. "Your mother calls you."

**Fin**


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